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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
























































































































































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Wesley 


Preaching at Cheltenham. 



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See page 125 










WALTER 


TALE OF THE TIMES OF WESLEY. 


/ 

BY EMMA LESLIE, 

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Author of “ Leofyvine the Saxon,” “ Conrad,” etc. 


FOUR 


l_ L. U S T H A T i O N S , 


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NEW YORK : 
PHILLIPS & HUNT. 

CINCINNATI : 





\ 


Copyright 1880, by 

PHILLIPS & HUNT. 

* 

New York. 


1 




PREFACE. 


I HAVE but few words to say by way of intro- 
duction to this fifth volume of the second series 
of Church History Stories. It brings us to the pro- 
saic dead level of the eighteenth century — the age 
of elaborate apologies for religion, and exhaustive 
treatises written in its defense and as “ Evidences 
of Christianity ” — very useful books in their way, 
but bearing unmistakable proofs of being written 
in an age when the living spirit of Christianity 
had well-nigh departed from every branch of 
the Church, until John Wesley arose, a father in 
Israel. 

The previous century had witnessed the grand 
protest of our Puritan Fathers on behalf of relig- 
ion, and many of them had left the shores of Old 
England, to found a new and mighty empire be- 
yond the seas. The reigns of the two Charleses 
saw England denuded of some of her best and 
noblest sons, and those who remained as dissenters 
from the established religion were glad to hide 
their heads and be left in peace ; for though there 
was a certain freedom allowed to men to worship 
God after their own conscience, which no Arch- 
bishop Laud or bigoted king could rob them 


6 


Preface. 


of, still it was burdened with so many restrictions 
as to be hardly worth the name. A dissenting 
chapel was a very modest little building in those 
days, generally hidden out of sight for safety’s 
sake, and scarcely daring to hang a feeble oil lamp 
at its door, for fear of calling attention to its exist- 
ence, and provoking an attack from those who 
were ready to make Dissenters the scapegoats for 
every thing. To expect any thing like a general 
revival of religion to spring from Dissenters was, 
therefore, out of the question, when the Church 
had purged itself of every trace of nonconformity 
by ejecting two thousand of the best and most 
learned of her clergy. The Church then sank to 
the dead level of sloth and ignorance that made 
apologies for its existence a necessity, since it had 
ceased to exert any vital influence on the world, un- 
til the genius of Wesley roused it into life again. 

My chief authorities for the facts narrated of 
Wesley and Whitefield are S^ithey and Tyer- 
man’s Lives of Wesley, and for the rest — Newton, 
Cowper, Wilberforce, Watt — various authors have 
been consulted. 

That my story may bear with it a message of 
warning and encouragement, as well as historical 
instruction, and that some souls may be edified 
and built up in their most holy faith, is the con- 
stant prayer of The Author. 


Historical Persons. 


WESLEY, 

NEWTON, 

ASBURY, 

WILBERFORCE, 

BENEZET, 

WATT, 


WHITEFIELI), 

COWPER, 

FLETCHER, 

RAIKES, 

WOOLMAN, 

DR. JOHNSON. 
















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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. On the Village Green n 

II. A Heap of Wood Ashes 25 

III. Old Tim’s Story 40 

IV. An English Village.. 55 

V. The Cathedral Close 70 

VI. Methodist Madness 85 

VII. Will he Yield? 100 

VIII. A Morning Sermon 115 

IX. In London 132 

X. A Strange Scene 146 

XI. Homeless 162 

XII. An Unsisterly Sister 179 

XIII. An Election Riot 195 

XIV. Prejudice Conquered 211 

XV. The Poet of Olney 227 

XVI. Overcome 242 

XVII. A Methodist at Last 260 

XVIII William Wilberforce 276 

XIX. Lucy’s Rescue 292 

XX. Lucy’s Fortune 310 

XXI. Whitby Mall 325 

XXII. Conclusion 341 


(illustrations 


PAGB 

Wesley Preaching at Cheltenham 2 

All Alone in London 163 

A Strange Visitor to the Meeting-house 248 

Lucy’s Rescue 304 


WALTER: 

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF WESLEY. 


CHAPTER I. 

ON THE VILLAGE GREEN. 

W HAT a delightful old room it was ! The 
children’s room it had always been called, 
although the children had, for the most part, 
forsaken it now, and the parent nest, too — all 
but the youngest, a boy and girl, who were 
still spared to the old folks, and loved the old 
room, with its incongruous litter of school books 
and playthings, tools and broken furniture, 
and all the odds and ends of hobbies that had 
been bequeathed to this younger brother and 
sister by their elders. 

The boys had all shown a turn for mechanics, 
and here stood the embodiments of some of 
their ideas, or, rather, the fragments of them, 
for nothing had been perfected ; and so this 
younger scion of the old family might have 
profited by his brothers’ failures, and given up 


14 


Walter. 


trouble can come of it, unless it is very soon 
stopped.” 

“ Ah, ah ! it’s Mary, then, at the bottom of 
this,” chuckled Mr. Maxwell. “I thought it 
was not like you, good dame, to begrudge 
them the last bit of their childhood. Walter 
is only sixteen and Lucy a year younger ; why 
should they be turned out of the children’s 
room yet ? ” 

Meanwhile the subjects of this discussion 
were as busy as two of their father’s work-peo- 
ple in the neighboring foundry, elaborating 
some of Walter’s schemes, when the door 
opening into the garden was suddenly dark- 
ened, and a hand was laid on Walter’s shoul- 
der. “ Come, tear yourself from those gimcracks; 
there is to be a splendid fight on the green ; 
for Will Carson has bought another game-cock, 
and Tom Beavis is to bring his out again. 
Come, Mistress Lucy, get your hood, and come 
with us ; we have not a minute to lose.” 

But Lucy looked at her brother doubtfully — 
not about the witnessing such sport ; that was 
one of the “ manly ” games of the time, and, of 
course, a favorite with most boys ; and, as Lucy 
always shared in her brother’s amusements, it 
was no uncommon thing for her to go and see 
a cock-fight on the village green — but Walter 


5 


On the Village Green . i 

was more than usually absorbed in his work 
just now, and needed her help. So before ac- 
cepting Philip Golding’s invitation she looked 
to see what her brother thought about it. 

“ I’d like to see the fight,” debated Walter, 
looking critically at his work ; “ but, you see — ” 

“ O, no buts, an it please you, but come 
now, and leave that gimcrack for another day. 
That can wait, but the fight will begin whether 
we are there or not,” said Philip impatiently. 

But Walter shook his head. “You must go 
without us this time, Phil ; I’ve got an idea, and 
want to work it out. Did you find the string, 
Lucy? ” he asked, turning to his sister. 

Lucy could not help feeling disappointed, 
for to help blindly in the carrying out of an- 
other’s idea is different from working with the 
enthusiasm born of the idea itself; and so, while 
Walter turned joyfully to fashion a new wheel, 
Lucy went rather reluctantly to look for the 
string that entered so largely into the construc- 
tion of their models at this period. But Philip 
was not to be put off quite so easily. 

“ Come now ; there has not been a fight 
worth looking at for more than a month ; I am 
sure you can leave that thing alone for an hour 
to see such good sport. No one will touch it 
while" you are gone.” 


1 6 


Walter. 


“ O, I’m not afraid of that; but — but, you 
don’t understand about these things, Phil ; 
when I have an idea like this — ” 

“Tell us when you haven’t had an idea 
about some gimcrack or the other. What a 
bonfire your ‘ ideas ’ would make ! ” laughed 
Philip, looking around at the clumsy models 
scattered about the room. 

“ O, they’re not all mine,” said Walter; 
“my brother John and the rest have had a 
turn at working out their ideas, and those I 
have made are not perfect. I’ve got on with 
them, you see, and then I’ve seen where they 
could be improved, and to do that I’ve had to 
begin again.” 

“ Well, come with me now, and give your 
idea time to work itself out,” said Philip ; “ it 
will -save you time and trouble, too. Never 
mind the string, Lucy, but go and get your hat 
or hood.” 

“ I suppose we shall have to go,” laughed 
Walter, reluctantly putting aside the model he 
had been working at, and preparing to go out. 
He tossed aside the long, flowing curls that 
hung over the braided collar of his coat, and 
took his cocked hat from the peg near the 
door, while Lucy ran to her own room to 
change her quilted petticoat, and draw the 


; 


On the Village Green . i 

skirt of her gown more neatly through the 
pocket holes. Then there was the jaunty little 
hat, with its bundle of cherry-colored ribbons, 
to set right, at the top of her roll of hair, and 
her long gloves to draw on ; so that before all 
these arrangements could be made the boys’ 
patience had become exhausted. When Lucy 
bounced into the room she saw, to her surprise, 
only her elder sister, Mary, who was on a visit 
at her old home. Lucy stared, and Mary 
looked confused as she said, “Walter has 'gone 
out with Philip Golding. Are you going with 
them ? ” 

At another 'time the young matron would 
have protested against her sister being allowed 
to run about with the boys, declaring she was 
never allowed such liberty ; and, anxious as 
Lucy was to escape this lecture and catch up 
with the boys, she could not help wondering 
what had happened to Mary, as she ran down 
the garden path and out into the road. 

The boys were walking very slowly on 
ahead, for Walter could not have enjoyed any 
pleasure that his sister did not share, and it 
was more for Lucy’s sake than his own 
that he had left his precious model and come 
out this afternoon ; but he did not like to be 
kept waiting, and so he said, “ What a long 


iS 


Walter. 


time you have been, Lucy ! ” as soon as she 
joined them. 

“We thought your sister must have set you 
to your lace-work,” said Philip, who knew 
Lucy’s hatred of lace-work. 

“ Mary is playing cards with mother and 
Miss West, I presume,” said Walter, “and did 
not see us come out.” 

“ O yes, she did ; she was in the summer 
parlor when I came out, and told me you had 
gone on,” said Lucy. 

The “ children’s room ” was occasionally 
called the summer parlor, because it had a 
door opening to the garden as well as the or- 
dinary door connecting it with the rest of the 
house, at the end of a long passage. It was 
an out-of-the-way room, and rarely visited by 
any of the family; and so to hear that his state- 
ly elder sister had deigned to visit their quar- 
ters caused Walter no small surprise. 

“ Dame Mary in our room ! ” he exclaimed, 
laughing; “why, surely the sky will fall. What 
was she doing, Lucy, to let you escape so 
easily?” 

“ Nothing, only looking at one of your 
models,” said Lucy lightly; and then the con- 
versation drifted into another channel, and 
Mary and the models were soon forgotten in 


19 


On the Village Green. 

the excitement of watching the fight, which 
had just commenced when they reached the 
village green. 

The boys elbowed their way through the 
crowd to secure a good place for Lucy. She 
was as eager as any body to see the poor birds 
spurring, and picking, and clawing each other ; 
and the cheering and swearing and cursing 
inseparable from such a scene was altogether 
such a common, every-day occurrence that 
she did not notice it. Nay, in the eagerness 
of the sport she herself used a few genteel 
oaths, for the habit of swearing was so general 
in those days that even those priding them- 
selves on their good birth and genteel breeding 
did not hesitate to use profane language occa- 
sionally, if not generally. 

The village ale-house was, of course, close 
to the spot where the cock-fight took place; 
and, as drunkenness was as common as swear- 
ing, and men prided themselves in being called 
three-bottle or four-bottle men, according to 
their capacity for drinking this quantity before 
rolling under the table helpless and insensible, 
it may be imagined that few among the crowd 
of men gathered there were quite sober when 
the fight was at an end ; but Lucy was by no 
means discomposed by the reeling, drunken, 
2 


20 


Walter. 


quarrelsome men ; for her own father was dis- 
posed to be quarrelsome when he slipped un- 
der the dining-table at home without having 
taken quite enough to render him insensible, 
and his wife and servants attempted to carry 
him to bed without giving him either wine or 
brandy. 

Morality was at this time at so low an ebb 
in all classes of society, that it seemed as 
though the commonest instincts of nature 
were blunted by the contact, or a gentle, 
well-trained girl, like Lucy Maxwell, could 
not have stood near a crowd of coarse, brutal, 
half-drunken men without a shudder of the 
keenest pain and repulsion ; but as it was, 
Lucy was troubled with no such qualms, and 
laughed, and chatted, and discussed the fight, 
and the odds and ends of gossip that she 
overheard, or was told by one or two friends 
she had met on the green. 

Among the latter were a young lady and 
gentleman who had just returned from a visit 
to London, and, of course, full of the news of 
the Court and the Parliament, and what was 
going on in the great city. Among other 
things was a story about the Methodists. 

“Who are the Methodists ? ” asked Lucy. 
“ I overheard Deb Potter talking about them, 


On the Village Green. 21 

but could not make much out of what she 
said.” 

“ Of course not, my dear, you could not be 
expected to understand any thing so low and 
vulgar as these canting, blaspheming Method- 
ists,” said her friend. 

“ But who are they, and what do they do ? ” 
asked Lucy. 

“ Well, they are a lot of half-crazy people, 
as low as Deb Potter and those miserable 
people that live on the waste — not a braided 
coat or brocaded gown ever to be seen among 
them ; and as for what they do, no one, I vow, 
could tell you that, except that they sit up 
all night to pray, and sing, and then fall into 
fits, and howl like Bedlamites.” 

“ And that is not the worst of the matter, 
as I conceive it, Mistress Lucy,” put in her 
friend’s brother ; “ for the leader of this mad 
rabble is himself a respectable gentleman, and, 
as some say, a clergyman of Oxford.” 

"O, fie upon him! What would my Uncle 
Rawlins say if he should hear this story?” said 
Lucy. 

“ You may be sure he will hear of it; but 
so long as these praying madmen keep away 
from his parish he need not let it trouble him,” 
replied her friend. 


22 


Walter. 


“ I don’t think he would let it disturb him 
much even then, beyond setting him off on a 
new study among his books, to find out the 
cause of such an outbreak, and at what date in 
the world’s history it had previously occurred, 
and what we might expect to happen next 
from what preceded it,” said Walter. 

“ My uncle is a very clever man, far too 
clever for preaching sermons and such com- 
mon things,” said Lucy, with a touch of pride 
in her tone. “ He hires a curate to do that 
work ; for he rarely leaves his study and his 
books, except to hunt now and then with the 
squire and some of the quality, when they hap- 
pen to be staying in the country.” 

“ I wish the Methodists would come this 
way ; they would soon find they could not do 
much here,” said Walter, laughing; “we are 
not to be trapped into praying and singing 
hymns at unlawful hours. Church is the place 
for that, and it should be kept to the church, 
I say.” 

“And I say the same ; this Mr. Wesley, the 
leader of the Methodists, teaches his followers 
that they may sing and pray anywhere and 
every-where. Was ever such blasphemy heard 
of before ? ” 

“ O, let the Methodists alone,” said Philip, 


23 


On the Village Green. 

in a tone of disgust and annoyance. “Tell us 
about the speech of the last highwayman that 
was hung at Tyburn. Did you go to the 
hanging, Mistress Dolly?” he asked. 

“ No, but my Cousin Ted brought me a 
broad-sheet of the man’s last speech, and 
mighty fine it is, I can tell you. They say he 
was a very pretty fellow, and wore the finest 
of French lace frillings to be hanged in. You 
shall have the broad-sheet, Lucy, when my 
mamma has read it.” 

“Wont you lend it to me as well?” asked 
Philip. 

“ O no, the Methodists will do you most 
good,” said Dolly, with a meaning laugh. 

The lad looked at her for a minute with a 
searching, grieved look in his face, and then 
turned away. 

“What has offended Phil, that he has walked 
off like that?” exclaimed Lucy. 

“ Hush ; haven’t you heard the news about 
the Goldings ? ” whispered her friend. 

“ About the Goldings ? What can the news 
be ? for Phil is up at our house nearly every 
day, and he has said nothing of news,” said 
Lucy, half offended that her friend should 
be in possession of a secret that she did not 
share. 


24 


Walter. 


“ O, Phil would not tell you ; it is nothing 
to be proud of, but still true enough, I feel 
sure now — although my aunt would have it 
that it was nothing but gossip and scandal; 
for Master Phil would not have turned away 
so huffy if it had not been true.” 

“ But what is it ? ” exclaimed Lucy, impa- 
tiently. 

“ My dear, haven’t you heard that Harold 
Golding has turned Methodist?” 

“ Harold Golding turned Methodist — one 
of the mad rabble you were talking about ! ” 
said Lucy in a tone of scorn. “ Dolly, I don’t, 
I wont believe it!” said she the next minute. 
“ I’ve known Phil and Harold as long as I 
have known my own mother and father, and, 
besides, Oxford is not like London ; there is 
no mad rabble of Methodists there, and some- 
body must have made a mistake, or told a 
lie;” and, saying this, Lucy walked away with 
the air of an offended duchess. * 


A Heap of Wood Ashes . 


25 


CHAPTER II. 

A HEAP OF WOOD ASHES. 

UCY tried to forget what she had heard, 



-I—* and walked on with her brother and 
Philip, chatting and laughing; but the mem- 
ory of what Dolly Reece had told her remained 
like the smarting sting of a wound that would 
make itself felt the more she tried to hide and 
forget it. They went for a long walk before 
returning home, but Lucy took care not to 
ask any more questions about the Methodists, 
or to be left with her friend that she might 
have the opportunity of telling her any more 
about Harold Golding; for although she was 
impatient to hear all that was known about 
her old playmate, she did not wish to hear it 
from Dolly, neither would she ask her brother 
any questions while Philip was with them, and 
he seemed in no hurry to leave them to-day. 

But at last they reached their own garden 
gate, where Philip bade them good-bye. The 
moment he was gone Lucy began question- 
ing her brother : “ Walter, have you heard 
any thing about Harold ? Did Phil tell you 


26 


Walter. 


he had turned Methodist? Has he been turned 
out of Oxford ? ” 

“Any more questions? Go on ; let us have 
a few more,” said Walter, laughing at his sister’s 
impatience. 

“ It’s all very well for you to laugh,” ex- 
claimed Lucy angrily; “but it is shameful, 
disgraceful, for a young gentleman like Harold 
to join with such a rabble, and I’ll never speak 
to him again.” 

Walter was in a teasing mood, and would 
not satisfy his sister as to whether he had 
heard the report or not ; but his face and ban- 
ter gave way to alarmed surprise when he 
opened the door of the old summer parlor and 
surveyed the altered aspect of the room. 

“ Who has been here ? ” he exclaimed, as he 
looked round upon the clear, tidy table, and 
missed the litter in which his soul delighted. 

Lucy forgot her own indignation as she 
stepped in behind her brother. “ O Walter, 
where are your models and things ? ” she said, 
rushing forward to take a closer inspection 
for in the gathering dusk of the summer night 
part of the room was in darkness, and Lucy 
groped about in search of the things which 
she thought might have been put out of the 
way while the room was being cleaned. 


27 


A Heap of Wood Ashes . 

But not one of their old treasures could she 
find, and she went back to where Walter was 
standing near the door, silent as a statue, but 
with such a look on his face as would have 
frightened Lucy if she could have seen it. 

“ Don’t tell me ; I know it, Lucy ; I know 
they are all gone,” he said hoarsely. 

“ But — but who can have done it ? ” said 
Lucy wonderingly. 

“ Who did you leave behind when you came 
out ? That was what she had come to do ! I 
see it all now ; it’s Mary’s doings, and I’ll nev- 
er speak to her again,” said Walter, bitterly. 

“ O, don’t say that ! It may not be so bad 
as you think. Perhaps Molly has been clean- 
ing, and packed all the rubbish, as she calls it, in 
a corner. Wait a minute, and I will get a light 
and Lucy ran out of the other door and up the 
passage, returning very soon with a candle. 
But the desolation of the room was only made 
more apparent, and it was needless to search in 
corners or on shelves, for they had all been 
cleaned of every model and wheel that had pre- 
viously crowded them ; but in the wide-open 
fire-place there was a heap of wood ashes that 
had not been there when they went out. 

The meaning of this was plain enough : some 
one had carried out Philip Golding’s suggestion, 


28 


Walter. 


and made a bonfire of all the embodied ideas 
of Walter and his brothers ; and this was what 
remained of them. He stepped across from 
the door to look at the black and gray frag- 
ments that lay in a heap in the fire-place. They 
were still warm, but not a vestige remained to 
tell what it had once been. Walter turned 
them about with his foot, Lucy watching him 
and wishing he would speak ; for this dread- 
ful silence and the hard look in his face were 
worse than any passionate outburst. 

At last Lucy could bear it no longer, and, 
bursting into tears, she sobbed, “O Walter! 
do scold me, or something; it’s all my fault; 
for if I had not wanted to go you would 
not have gone out this afternoon, and then 
no one could have touched your things.” 

“Yes, she would have done it some other 
time ; Mary always did want to make people 
do as she wished, and always hated models. 
I hate her now, and always shall,” concluded 
Walter. He felt too miserable himself to at- 
tempt to comfort Lucy beyond telling her not 
to cry, while she felt that if she had not been 
so eager to go and see the cock-fight their 
models might have been saved. So she 
blamed herself very bitterly, almost as much 
as she blamed Mary. 


29 


A Heap of Wood Ashes. 

Walter sat down, and, resting his elbows on 
the table, buried his face in his hands, and 
Lucy, feeling she could do her brother no 
good just now, crept out of the room and went 
to the oak parlor, where she expected to find 
her mother and sister, and hoped she should find 
them by themselves. In this, however, she was 
disappointed, for her father and a large party of 
friends were also there, playing at cards, and 
it was evident that more than one of the party 
had already drank too much. 

But Lucy was not to be deterred by the 
presence of friends, and, walking up to her sis- 
ter, she said : “ How dared you do such a 
mean, spiteful thing to Walter?” 

Mary looked at her sister and crimsoned, 
while every body paused in their play to look 
first at one and then the other. But Mary 
soon recovered from her confusion, and said, 
“ Don’t come worrying me about your rubbish ; 
I know nothing of your models.” 

“ Yes, you do ; you watched Walter out this 
afternoon, and burned every one ; and I say 
you are mean and spiteful, and I will never own 
you for a sister again.” Lucy stamped her foot 
in her impotent rage, and actually raised her 
hand to strike her sister, but was held back by 
her father. 


30 


Walter. 


With a loud oath he exclaimed, “ What does 
all this mean ! How dare you come here talk- 
ing to your sister as though she were a girl 
like yourself? ” 

“ No ! she is not a girl like myself,” said 
Lucy ; “ for I would scorn to do what she has 
done to-day. She is — ” 

“ Now, now, Lucy, no hard names,” said her 
father; “but just tell us what Mary has done.” 

“ Burned all our models, and broken Wal- 
ter’s heart ! ” 

Some of the guests laughed at the idea of 
Walter’s heart being broken ; but Mr. Max- 
well, though he smiled, did not laugh, for he 
knew it was no light matter to the lad ; and he 
said, rather severely, “ Did you do this, Mary ? ” 

But the young matron was by no means dis- 
posed to be taken to task for what she might 
do now, even by her father. She was the 
great lady of the family ; had made a wealthy 
marriage with the squire of Harewood in the 
neighboring county, and was received by all 
the quality. Her own family had come to 
look up to her, and seldom questioned what 
she thought right and proper to be done ; so 
that Lucy’s outburst was the more surprising 
and unpardonable in her estimation. Now, 
that her father should support this chit of a 


3i 


A Heap of Wood Ashes. 

girl in her daring was still worse, and so Mary 
replied haughtily, “ I decline to answer Lucy’s 
unmannerly charge.” 

“ But you cannot deny it,” retorted Lucy ; 
“ and it would be more honest to answer my 
father’s question fairly.” 1 

But Mrs. Maxwell, who stood in considerable 
awe of her elder daughter, now interposed and 
ordered Lucy to leave the room, or sit down 
quietly and not interrupt the game — a com- 
mand that her father enforced by a look that 
Lucy knew she dare not disobey ; and so she 
sat down as far away from her sister as she 
could, but near enough to watch the rising an- 
ger in her face. 

Her sister’s anger, however, was soon forgot- 
ten in the interest with which Lucy listened 
to the conversation that was going on. It was 
not often that Lucy took the trouble to listen 
to the talk that went on between her father 
and his guests, but the word “ Methodist ” was 
mentioned, and Lucy was all attention. 

“A rascally set of Jacobites and traitors, sir,” 
said one of the guests. “ I knew one who heard 
this Wesley pray that the Lord would call 
home his banished ones, but when publicly 
accused before the magistrates for praying for 
the return of the Pretender, he struggled out 


32 


Walter. 


of the charge by saying we were all captive 
exiles who are absent from the Lord while 
present in the body ; we are not at home till 
we are in heaven.” 

“ Mean and cowardly, as well as traitors ! ” 
muttered Lucy to herself. 

“ I heard of these Methodists when I was at 
Bath,” said her sister, “ and Beau Nash boldly 
went to Mr. Wesley and demanded by what 
authority he was preaching, hoping by that 
means to drive him out of the town ; for peo- 
ple were being frightened out of their wits by 
what he told them in his sermons.” 

“And did he rid Bath of the pests, Dame 
Harewood ? ” asked one of the company. 

“ No, indeed ; this Wesley was not to be 
daunted so easily. He told the king of the 
pump room that he had received his authority 
from Jesus Christ, conveyed to him by the 
Archbishop of Canterbury, when he laid his 
hands upon him and said, ‘ Take thou author- 
ity to preach the Gospel/ ” 

“And did not Nash invite him to the pump 
room to preach to the quality?” asked one. 
At which joke a laugh went round the whole 
table, in which Lucy herself joined, though she 
muttered, half aloud, “ Mary need not laugh ; 
she is as mean as a Methodist, playing such a 


A Heap of Wood Ashes . 33 

sorry trick upon our models, and then refusing 
to own it.” 

This reminded her that Walter was still sit- 
ting alone in the summer parlor, and she 
slipped out of the room to persuade him to 
join the company in the oak parlor. 

“ What ! sit down at the table where she 
is ! ” exclaimed Walter bitterly. 

“ Well, we must do it, you know, to-morrow, 
if we don't to-night,” said Lucy, “ and father is 
properly angry with her, I can see. Come 
along ; we shall have to do it, you know.” 

“ Don’t be too sure,” said Walter moodily. 

But Lucy would not notice this. “ Come ; 
they are talking about the Methodists. Do 
you know that the leader, Mr. Wesley, is really 
a clergyman ? Isn’t it shocking ! ” 

“ There are a good many shocking clergy- 
men in these times. It was one of this set 
that caught poor little Maggie Winter when 
she was walking near the Fleet, and married 
her to a rascally fellow she had never seen 
before, for the sake of the fees and the bribe 
they knew old Winter would pay the man to 
keep away from his daughter.” 

“ O Walter, when did you hear this ? Is 
that the reason Maggie comes out so little 
now r 


34 


Walter. 


“Yes, I presume so. Her husband is some 
low, gambling fellow, nearly always in prison. 
He thought to get a good round sum out of old 
Winter to give up his wife. That was all he 
married Maggie for; but Mr. Winter was too 
sharp, and agreed to pay him so much a quar- 
ter so long as he left Maggie alone ; for the 
poor little thing is frightened out of her wits 
at the sight of her husband.” 

“ O Walter ! and Maggie is not much 
older than I am ! Did the Methodists do 
this ? ” 

“ No. We were talking about shocking 
clergymen, and I told you that it was not 
surprising that the leader of the Methodists 
should be a clergyman ; for they are capable 
of almost any thing, and marriages like poor 
Maggie’s are common enough in London, 
where, it seems to me, these debased clergy- 
men must mostly live.” 

“ But — but I thought clergymen were like 
uncle — rich, learned gentlemen,” said Lucy. 

“ Uncle is rich not because he is a clergy- 
man, but because he has private property of 
his own,” said Walter. His stipend is hardly 
enough to pay Todd, the curate, I have heard 
father say.” 

“ But there are some rich clergymen who 


A Heap of Wood Ashes. 35 

have no property of their own, surely?” said 
Lucy. 

“Well, there may be a few — the Bishops, 
for instance ; but I have heard that many 
vicars are troubled to keep themselves re- 
spectable and feed their children, and are not 
half so well off as some of the servants of the 
quality. This hinders many from becoming 
clergymen, and so the ranks are filled up from 
those who are fit for nothing else ; and then 
they go as chaplains in the houses of the 
quality to teach a little, and play cards a 
little, and hunt a little when they are wanted, 
for about half the sum that is paid to the 
butler. But the ease and luxury suit them, 
and they are unfitted for any honest work; 
so when they fall out of a situation they sink 
lower and lower, until they go to London and 
get into some of those places where they are 
a sort of half-prisoners for debt, but can per- 
form these shameful marriages by which they 
live.” 

“ O Walter, is this true ? ” said Lucy. 

“ True ! to be sure it is true ! I heard un- 
cle talking about it the very last time he was 
here.” 

“ Then you may be sure this Mr. Wesley is 
one of these clergymen, for Dolly heard of him 
3 


36 


Walter. 


in London , 0 said Lucy, who was ready to be- 
lieve any evil of the Methodists. 

“ I never heard that he was. Not that I 
think him any better,” Walter hesitated to 
add : “ for he seems to delight in making 
people miserable and frightening them out of 
their wits ; and I am of uncle’s opinion, that 
we ought to take things easy and comfortable, 
and be as happy as we can in our own way, 
and not interfere with other people. I wish 
Mary had profited more by uncle’s sermons, 
and she would not have burned my models,” 
concluded Walter, returning to the old griev- 
ance. 

“ I did not know that people were expected 
to understand sermons. I am sure I never 
could,” said Lucy with a yawn. 

“ Well, it seems as though people could un- 
derstand Mr. Wesley’s sermons,” said Walter. 

“But — but you would not compare this 
leader of a mad rabble with a learned man like 
uncle?” said Lucy hotly. 

“ Well — no, of course not.” 

“ I should think not either. I suppose I, or 
any other silly chit, could understand this man, 
who talks in the open air to a rabble mob; but 
I should not presume to try to understand a 
learned man like my uncle.” 


37 


A Heap of Wood Ashes. 

“ But I say, Lucy, don’t you think we ought 
to understand sermons? or else what is the 
use of preaching them ? That is what uncle 
says. People don’t understand him, and that 
is why he preaches so seldom.” 

“ I don’t think he would be pleased if any body 
told him they did understand him ; but now, 
when any of the farmers meet him, and say, 
4 Mighty fine sermon that you preached last 
Sunday, parson — mighty fine words they was, 
a deal above poor creeturs such as we,’ uncle 
looks pleased, and says, 4 Never mind, Farmer 
Stubbs, about the understanding it ; you come 
to church and listen, as you always do, and I 
shall never complain of you.’ ” 

44 Well, uncle is a clergyman, and, of course, 
he knows best about that sort of things; only 
it seems to me if it is worth while preaching a 
sermon at all, it is worth while making people 
understand it.” 

44 But if they can’t, what then ? ” said Lucy. 

“ O, but they could if it was made plain 
enough. Mr. Wesley has done that much good, 
if he has done nothing else — convinced people 
that even the rabble can understand sermons, 
if they are only spoken plainly enough.” 

44 I am sure you cannot say that uncle does 
not speak plainly. He has a beautiful voice. 


38 


Walter. 


I always like to listen to him, though I cannot 
expect to understand him.” 

“ I did not say any thing about his voice, 
though for that matter they say Mr. Wesley 
has a fine voice — as fine as my uncle’s, I 
should think ; it was the words he spoke that 
I meant ; the simple, plain words, such as 
people use every day, and therefore easy to 
be understood. That is how Mr. Wesley 
preaches, I am told.” 

“ Who told you ? Who do you know that 
has heard this Jacobite traitor preach?” de- 
manded Lucy eagerly. 

“ Hoity-toity! who are you calling a Jacob- 
ite and traitor?” said Walter, in some aston- 
ishment. 

“ Mr. Wesley. He prays for the return of 
the Pretender, which means that he is a Jesuit, 
and would bring back popery, but he has not 
the courage to own it.” 

“ I should not think the man was lacking 
in courage, whatever else may be laid to his 
charge,” said Walter. “ Who told you he was 
a Jacobite?” he asked. 

“They were talking about it in the oak 
parlor. O, he is a Jacobite, sure enough,” 
concluded Lucy. 

“ But I am not so sure. They used to say 


39 


A Heap of Wood Ashes. 

my father was a Jacobite, because his name 
was Maxwell, and the Scotch favored Prince 
Charles ; and about the time the battle of Cul- 
loden was fought, when you and I were little 
children, the mob threatened to pull the house 
down.” 

“ But we are not Scotch, and my father is 
no Jacobite,” said Lucy. 

“ Some of our ancestors were Scotch, for 
ours is a Scotch name, and that was enough 
for the mob, especially as one of them heard 
him say he pitied the poor young prince. It 
may not be any more than this that Mr. Wes- 
ley has said, if we only knew the truth of it.” 

“ I should say you are going to turn Meth- 
odist, taking Mr. Wesley’s part like this,” said 
Lucy in a half-offended tone. 

“ Not a bit of it ; only I am an English lad, 
and like to see fair play. Good-night, Lucy ; 
don’t dream about the Methodists if you can 
help it,” and Walter went up to bed, his sister 
soon after also retiring. 


40 


Walter. 


CHAPTER III. 

OLD TIM’S STORY. 

S OUR looks and short, crooked answers to 
each other were things so unusual in the 
Maxwell household that no one could get used 
to the order of things that followed upon the 
burning of Walter’s models. 

Mary had come upon a long visit to her old 
home to recruit her health, and could not well 
leave just now; but Walter and Lucy resented 
her interference with their usual occupation so 
bitterly that it was at last decided that they 
should go on a visit to their uncle, Dr. Raw- 
lins, who was vicar of the. adjoining parish, 
and would have this niece and nephew always 
with him if he could, in spite of his love of 
books ; so that there was little fear of their 
not being welcomed at Whitemead. 

They were as glad to go as their mother 
was to send them, for there had never been 
much sympathy between them and their elder 
sister, as Mary considered it her duty to set 
them in order and find fault with them gen- 
erally whenever she came on a visit. Her 


4i 


Old Tim's Story . 

presence, therefore, was dreaded rather than 
welcomed in her old home by her brother and 
sister at least. 

But at Whitemead they were left very much 
to their own desires ; might wander about the 
village, and talk to the men and women — crit- 
icise and applaud the cock fights that were 
usually got up for their amusement — order 
what they liked for dinner, and on wet days 
amuse themselves in an old lumber-room that 
was second only to their own summer-parlor 
for its litter of odds and ends, its general unti- 
diness, and consequent comfort to the brother 
and sister. 

It happened to be wet the day after their 
arrival, and so the lumber-room was subjected 
to an exhaustive search for something new — 
not that they expected to find much to reward 
their search, but they liked turning over the 
old things and asking each other if they re- 
membered this or that, as they disinterred 
clumsy toys made for them by the housekeep- 
er or gardener when they had been staying 
here on previous visits. 

To-day they dived deeper than usual among 
the accumulated rubbish, and Lucy at length 
discovered something she had never seen be- 
fore. “ O Walter, come here and look at this 


42 


Walter. 


funny thing ! Why, it’s something like one of 
your models, only ever so much better.” 

Walter left his own particular search and 
flew to the spot instantly. “ O Lucy, it is a 
model! Be careful now. Let me lift it out;” 
and Walter lifted the dirty, dusty; clumsy 
looking thing on to the table as carefully as a 
mother would lift her baby. He wiped it with 
his pocket-handkerchief, Lucy watching him 
and expatiating on its beauty and perfection ; 
while Walter, if he talked less, was the more 
rapt in eager admiration and curiosity to un- 
derstand it in all its parts. After spending an 
hour in examining its wheels and cylinders 
and piston-rods, Walter decided to fetch his 
uncle to see the treasure of which he was the 
possessor. 

“ My boy, I had quite forgotten it,” said 
the vicar, as soon as his eyes fell upon the 
model. 

“ O, uncle, how could you forget such a 
beautiful thing as this? How does it work?” 

“ I quite forget now ; it is so long ago since 
it was all explained to me. But you know 
what it is, I suppose,” he added, laughing. 

“ I know it is an engine of some sort — just 
the sort of thing I have been trying to make 
for ever so long.” 


43 


Old Tim's Story. 

“ Well, now, you see you are not so clever as 
you fancied ; for some one else has thought of 
the same thing before you. This is rather a 
clumsy model of Newcomen’s atmospheric en- 
gine.” 

“ What is it for, uncle ? ” asked Lucy. 

“To pump water by steam, my dear. This 
has been much improved upon, I hear,- by Mr. 
Smeaton, who — ” 

“ Has he made it to turn wheels as well as 
pump water?” interrupted Walter, eagerly. 

“ Not that I have heard of, my lad,” replied 
the vicar. 

“ I. am sure it could be done if some one 
could only find out the way to do it.” 

His uncle laughed. “ J ust so, my boy, but it is 
finding out the way. Apples might be made 
to grow on gooseberry bushes if we only found 
out the way to make them do so.” 

“ Now you are laughing at me, uncle. But 
if somebody found out that water can be raised 
by steam, why should we not go a step further, 
and turn wheels with it ? ” 

But the vicar shook his head. “ The world 
is as wise to-day as ever it will be, and no one 
need think of surpassing our great Sir Isaac 
Newton ; so don’t attempt it, Walter.” 

“ I don’t want to be thought a wise man — I 


44 


Walter. 


don’t care what the world thinks of me, but I 
want to make steam turn wheels.” 

“ Well, I can tell you what the world will 
say of you, if you go mooning over such im- 
possible things,” said the vicar. 

“ O yes, the world always calls people fools 
or rogues if it cannot understand them. It 
calls this Mr. Wesley a rogue, but I don’t be- 
lieve he is,” said Walter, with some warmth. 

“You are right there, my boy; the man is 
not a rogue, but, as my friend Warburton says 
of Whitefield, he is a hot-headed fanatic, who 
has no business to call himself a clergyman.” 

“ But he has been ordained, uncle, has he 
not?” asked Walter. 

“Yes, my lad, and therefore owes obedience 
to the Bishop. I dare say if any one asked him, 
he would say he was as much bound by the 
laws of the Church as I am ; and yet he open- 
ly sets all at defiance who seek to restrain him 
in his wild enthusiasm. Why cannot he let 
things alone ? We are not Papists, nor is he 
a Luther, that he need seek to bring about 
another Reformation. 

“ But — but the Reformation was a good 
thing, was it not, uncle?” said Lucy in some 
surprise. 

“ Yes, my dear, but it is over and done with 


45 


Old Tim's Story. 

now ; we have had enough quarreling and call- 
ing hard names in the Church as well as in the 
world, and clergymen ought to labor to build 
up the Church in quietness and due order and 
decorum ; whereas Mr. Wesley and Mr. White- 
field are for upsetting every thing, with their 
field-preaching and psalm-singing at all hours 
of the day and night.” 

“ But, uncle, if the work they are doing is 
not bad of itself, does it matter so much about 
the noise that is made in doing it ? ” said Wal- 
ter, looking up from his work of dusting the 
model engine. 

“ My boy, a greater than Mr. Wesley has 
said, ‘ Let all things be done decently and in 
order ; ’ and this is the complaint I have to 
bring against him : he breaks the divine com- 
mand in this matter, as well as disobeying his 
spiritual superiors.” 

“ Then it is quite clear he cannot be a good 
man, and I wonder that any should care to 
follow him,” said Lucy. “Who is Mr. White- 
field, uncle?” she asked; “is he another 
Methodist ? ” 

“He does not call himself a Methodist ; but 
there is little difference between them, except 
in some question upon the doctrine of elec- 
tion.” 


46 


Walter. 


“What is election, uncle?” asked Lucy. 

“ Bless the chit ! Does she expect to hear 
me preach a sermon here in the lumber-room ? 
Come to church next Sunday, Mistress Lucy, 
and listen to your old uncle instead of looking 
at all the new hats in church, and then you 
shall know what election means ; for I have a 
fine sermon written upon it that I have not 
read above three times in the last two years, 
and I will read it again next Sunday for the 
profit of my little niece;” and, with a parting 
word to Walter about the model, the vicar 
went down to his study again. 

“ Wouldn't you like to hear this Mr. Wesley 
preach, Lucy?” said Walter,- when they were 
left to themselves. 

“ No, indeed I should not ; I should be afraid 
he would bewitch me as he has so many others. 
Is it really true, Walter, about Harold Golding 
being a Methodist? ” asked Lucy eagerly; for 
this important matter had quite slipped her 
memory until this talk about the Methodists 
brought it back to her mind. 

“ Well, now, what am I to do? ” said Wal- 
ter, looking up at her; “ I promised not to tell 
you.” 

“ You did not tell me. It was Dolly Reece. 
I only asked if you knew whether or not it 


Old Tint s Story . 47 

was true, and now I know that it is,” rejoined 
Lucy. 

“ I wish Dolly Reece had been in London 
instead of on the green that day,” said Walter, 
with a muttered oath. 

“ Why do you wish that ? ” asked his sister. 

“ Because Harold did not wish that you 
should be told by any one but himself. He is 
coming home next month, and then he will 
tell you all about it.” 

“ No, he will not ; for I will not hear him,” 
said Lucy, with flashing eyes. “ I wonder he 
dares to come near the home he has disgraced, 
and you may tell him what I say if you see 
him,” she added. And, lest she should betray 
her emotion before her brother, she went to 
her own room for a time, and then went in 
search of her uncle’s black servant, Timothy, or 
Tim, as he was called by the household. Tim 
was a simple, kindly soul, who had been be- 
queathed to the vicar with some other prop- 
erty left him by his brother, who died in the 
West Indies. By an oversight of the vicar’s in 
not giving directions for him to be sold, he 
was transmitted to England, and here he had 
been ever since, ostensibly “ Massa’s own 
man;” but as the vicar had never been used to 
a valet before, he found Tim’s officious good 


48 Walter. 

nature rather troublesome. So he had been 
told to make himself generally useful in the 
house, which he did when he felt disposed, or 
his fellow-servants chose to employ him. But 
Tim was always ready to attend the young 
Maxwells, and so when Lucy was heard call- 
ing him Tim grinned from ear to ear with de- 
light, as he answered, “Yes, missie, ole Tim 
coming.” 

“ Tim, I want to see some of your funny 
things,” commanded Lucy, when he reached 
the hall. 

“To be sure, missie. Long time since mis- 
sie want to see Tim’s things,” said the man 
slyly. 

“ Yes, but I feel tired and out of sorts, and I 
know I used to be delighted with the things 
you had in the pantry drawer.” 

She followed him to the pantry as she spoke, 
and Tim meekly turned out all his treasures 
for her inspection ; but Lucy only yawned as 
she turned them over critically. The few shells 
and bright-colored beads, and dried beans and 
cloth pincushion, that had seemed of such 
costly worth before, were mere rubbish to 
Lucy now, and she soon pushed them aside to 
stare out of the window at the fast-falling 


rain. 


49 


Old Tint's Story. 

“ Can’t you tell me a story, Tim — not about 
the Methodists ; I never want to hear about 
them again, for they have robbed me of my 
dearest friend.” 

Tim’s round eyes opened wider in astonish- 
ment, and the shiny black face looked grieved 
as he said, “ Tim nebber goes wid robbers, 
missie.” 

“ No, no, of course you don’t,” rejoined Lucy, 
with some impatience. “ Do you know where 
you came from ? ” she asked. 

Tim almost jumped at the suddenness of the 
question ; but at last he said, “ I don’t just 
’member much about it, but I’ve heard my 
mammy say she was took from her father’s hut 
in a far-away country — men stole her — the 
same robbers, maybe, that missie was ’feared 
I knew.” 

“ O no, I wasn’t thinking of that kind of 
robbers,” said Lucy, with a smile. “ But, was 
your mother really stolen from her home?” 
she said. 

“ Yes, raly. I ’member mammy talking ’bout 
de palm-tree near de well, where she played 
when she was a gal, ’fore de white thieves stole 
her and carried her to de big ship.” 

“ But — but wasn’t she a slave before she was 
stolen ? ” asked Lucy. . 


50 


Walter. 


“ No, missie ; no slaves in de ole country 
where my mammy lived, before bad men stole 
her.” 

“ Then you ought not to be a slave, Tim,” 
said Lucy. “You ought to be free and go 
back to your mother’s old country, wherever 
that was.” 

But Tim shook his head. “ Me always Mr. 
Robert’s man ; me neber free.” 

But Lucy was not satisfied with this reason- 
ing, and after some further talk with Tim she 
went to the vicar’s study. 

“ May I come in, uncle ? ” she said rather 
timidly, peeping round the door as she opened 
it a little way. 

“ Come along. What is it now, Lucy? Has 
Walter found another model, or do you want 
a new doll ? ” 

“ No, uncle, I’ve come to talk to you about 
Tim. Do you know, uncle, you ought not to 
keep him ? He ought to be free, and go back 
to the old country where his mother was stolen 
from.” 

“Bless me! what next? What dangerous, 
revolutionary little people you and Walter are 
growing! We old folks can’t keep pace with 
you at all ; one wants to drive wheels by steam, 
and the other desires nothing less than to abol- 


5i 


Old Tim's Story . 

ish slavery ! Why, Lucy, do you not know we 
own thousands of slaves in our plantations of 
America and the Indies?” 

“ Where did we get them ? Did we steal 
them, as Tim’s poor mother was stolen?” 

“ I suppose we did,” said the vicar, feeling 
rather amused and a little uncomfortable at 
Lucy’s direct question. 

“ Then we ought to set them free — don’t 
you think we ought, uncle ? ” said Lucy. 

‘‘Well, my dear, I don’t know what to think. 
1 have thought about it, and talked about it ; 
only last year, just before my dear friend, 
Bishop Butler, died, we had a long conversa- 
tion upon this very subject. By the way, I 
will lend you a book my friend wrote on the 
‘Analogy of the Christian Religion.’ ” 

“ Thank you, uncle ; but what did Bishop 
Butler think about slavery?” said Lucy, who 
was not to be turned from her point by the 
offer of a book. 

“Well, my dear, we have the evidence of 
the Bible that slavery always did exist, and it 
seems nothing short of presumption to attempt 
to abolish it now.” 

“You are afraid it would make a noise and 
fuss — disturb the order of things generally ? ” 

said Lucy. 

4 


52 


Walter. 


“Just so, my dear. Really, Lucy, you are 
not quite the thoughtless chit I believed you 
to be, and you shall have Warburton’s ‘Divine 
Legations of Moses ’ to read, if you like.” 

That was not the age of story-books, and 
the vicar thought his niece could not fail to 
be interested in the books he found so all-ab- 
sorbing, and was, therefore, a little disappoint- 
ed that Lucy showed so little eagerness to sit 
down and peruse these learned apologies for 
religion. 

She thanked her uncle with all due polite- 
ness for his kind offer, but declined them for 
the present, saying she preferred talking to 
him just now, if he was not too busy to be 
troubled with her. 

“ When you trouble me I shall send you 
home, Mistress Lucy,” he said. 

She laughed at this old threat of her uncle’s, 
and at once renewed her attack upon the ques- 
tion of slavery, which the vicar parried with all 
the old arguments of divine sanction and hu- 
man necessity, and the benefit of the slaves 
themselves ; though in what this consisted, be- 
yond being brought into contact with a race 
superior in strength and intelligence, but be- 
low -their captives in many of the sweet do- 
mestic virtues, even the vicar was puzzled to 


Old Tim's Story. 53 

state, since no effort was made to educate and 
instruct them. 

So Lucy went up to the lumber-room to 
discuss the matter over again with her brother, 
feeling no little mystified by her uncle’s learned 
arguments, but by no means convinced of the 
fallacy of her own deductions and conclusions 
that the whole system of holding men and 
women in bondage was wicked, cruel, and dis- 
honest. 

Walter was still rubbing and cleaning the 
model engine, and she had to listen to his 
raptures, and conjectures, and explanations, so 
far as he had been able to puzzle out the uses 
of the different parts, before she could say 
a word about Tim and his mother, and the 
whole question of slavery. Even then Walter 
failed to look at it from her point of view. 
“ Suppose Tim was free now, what could he 
do?” said Walter. “ He could not work for his 
living ; he has no idea of the value of money ; 
he could hardly take _ care of himself, and 
would be begging in the street to-morrow if 
uncle set him free to-day.” 

This argument proved almost unanswerable, 
but Lucy fell back upon the fact of Tim’s 
mother being stolen from her home, which was 
not in England, but in Africa, and, therefore, 


54 


Walter. 


though Tim might be useless and helpless 
here, outside of the home provided for him, 
he might be able to live his life in happiness 
and freedom if he were back in his native 
country. 

But Walter shook his head. “ The world 
will never believe in your argument, Lucy,” 
he said. “ There always have been slaves, and 
always will be. Hark! what was that?" 

“ Only uncle’s bell,” said Lucy. 

“But he never rings it like that;” and Wal- 
ter opened the door and went outside to listen. 
There was an unusual commotion down stairs, 
in the hall the servants hurrying to and fro, 
and the housekeeper giving orders at the study 
door. 

“ What is it ? What can it be ? ” said Lucy 
in a frightened whisper as she joined her 
brother on the landing. 

“ Stay here, Lucy, I will go down and see. 
I am afraid uncle must be ill ; ” and Walter 
ran down stairs, closely followed by his sister. 


An English Village. 


55 


CHAPTER IV. 

AN ENGLISH VILLAGE. 

u O back,. Mistress Lucy ; the master is 
very ill. Tim has gone for the doctor, 
and he will be here directly.” 

“ But what is the matter with him ? ” asked 
Walter. “ He was quite well an hour or two 
ago.” 

“ Well, ’tis something of a faint or a fit. I 
think the master was taken all of a sudden 
and fell off his chair, but he seems a little 
more himself now.” 

In vain Walter pleaded that he might go 
into the study and see his uncle. The house- 
keeper would not hear of it until the doctor 
had come; and when he came he issued orders 
that no one but the housekeeper was to go 
near his patient, and suggested that Walter 
and Lucy should be sent home at the first 
convenient opportunity. 

The fact was, the vicar had at last fallen a 
victim to his own let-alone policy. Summer 
after summer had the village been visited by 
ague and fever, and the doctor had said it was 


56 


Walter. 


owing to the dirty, close, undrained hovels in 
which the inhabitants lived in rather less 
cleanliness than the parson’s pigs ; but they 
were ready to resent any interference with the 
existing state of things, and the vicar disliked 
noise and fuss too much to help to force it 
upon them ; and now the periodical outbreak 
had commenced again, the vicar being the first 
to succumb to its attack. 

The village was panic-stricken when it heard 
of the parson’s illness, and gossips gathered 
at their doors, standing ankle-deep in mud and 
garbage, which the pigs and children alike 
rolled in, to discuss the direful news. As the 
doctor passed on his way home from the vicar- 
age he stopped to say a word to some of them : 
“ Now, Gammer Stubbs, get your good man 
to clean out those pigsties, and bury all these! 
rotting vegetables, and fill up this muddy 
hollow with a barrow load of gravel from the 
pits, and do you use plenty of soap and water 
about the house, and get the windows open.” 

Gammer Stubbs stared and nodded, but did 
not look quite pleased at the advice tendered 
her; but she asked kindly enough after the 
vicar. 

“ We shall never see another parson like him, 
so kind as he be, sending to help us with broths, 


57 


An English Village. 

and meat, and food, ale if we be ill, and never 
interfering with us as some other folks be with 
their new-fangled notions.” 

This was a sly hint at the doctor, who was 
always trying to persuade them that pure fresh 
air and plenty of soap and water would do 
more for them than all his medicine, or even 
the parson’s strengthening broths. But he had 
preached the gospel of cleanliness in wain to 
these stolid peasants, who could not see the 
connection between dirt and disease, and, 
therefore, would not believe in it ; but he re- 
solved to attack them on another side. 

“ The parson is very ill,” he said ; “ very ill, 
indeed. He wants what I can’t give, and that 
is pure air ; for he gets the smell of all this filth 
. in at his chamber windows, and it does him 
more harm than I can do him good.” 

“ There ! see now what comes of having 
windows to open,” said Gammer Stubbs, tri- 
umphantly. “ The pigs do smell bad, of course. 
Poor brutes ! they can’t help it, and it’s no good 
being angry with them ; but we can shut out 
the smell, thank goodness! for our windows 
don’t open; and I’ll take care to stuff up every 
crack in the door, doctor, so as to keep the 
fever out.’* 

“ Would you do any thing for the vicar as 


58 


Walter. 


well as yourself?” said the doctor, despair- 
ingly. 

“ Wouldn’t I ? Gammer Stubbs aint the 
one to forget such kindness as parson’s.” 

“ Yes, I believe you can be grateful,” said 
the doctor, “ and so do for his sake clear away 
all this filth and lay down some clean gravel. 
If every one of you would do it we might ward 
off the worst of the sickness, and bring the vic- 
ar round again.” 

“ Bless you, doctor ! what would be the good 
of taking all that trouble ? If we did all that 
to-night it would be as bad as ever to-morrow, 
for where can we throw the slops and the rub- 
bish but on the ash-heap at the door ? ” 

The doctor had talked over his favorite 
hobby of draining and supplying the cottages 
with clean water, and been laughed at as a 
dreamer and enthusiast, if not an actual atheist, 
in ascribing the visitation of disease to the 
neglect of sanitary laws ; so that he understood 
the woman’s difficulty before she stated it, and 
had a remedy to suggest. 

“ If one of the men would dig a good deep 
hole it could all be thrown into that, and I 
would provide some lime to put over it until it 
could be filled in. It is not the best way to 
keep the village clean, but it is better than 


59 


An English Village. 

every house being surrounded with filth, as it 
is now. Tell your goodman what I say. I 
cannot stay longer now, for I must make up 
the parson’s physic.” But the doctor did pause 
once more before he had gone many steps far- 
ther. “ Molly Green, your children will be 
having the fever next if you let them roll in 
the mud and eat that rotten fruit. Get a tub 
of water and give them all a good wash.” 

Molly Green did not dare to answer the doc- 
tor as Gammer Stubbs had done, but once he 
was out of hearing her tongue was loosened. 
“ Wash the children, indeed ! Much he knows 
about children, wanting to rob the poor things 
of their little bit of fruit ! ” 

“ He wants to starve us all ! ” exclaimed an- 
other angry woman. “ What would become of 
all the pigs and ducks if we buried all the good 
cabbage leaves, and never had a puddle of wa- 
ter or a little mud for them to dabble in ? It’s my 
belief the doctor just envies us our few comforts, 
and begrudges us our bit of rest and gossip, as 
though we didn’t work hard enough to get a 
bite and sup to keep body and soul together.” 

At the ale-house much the same argument 
was going on among the men. They had left 
off work for the day, and were now gathered 
in the close, stifling tavern, drinking as hard as 


6o 


Walter. 


they had worked, and swearing as hard as they 
drank. By and by they would roll home to 
their filthy hovels and lie down as they were on 
the beds, if they had the sense to get there, or 
outside the doors if they were too far gone to 
lift the latch. 

This was the preparation made for the fever 
in Whitemead, and the doctor knew that in a 
week half of them would be down with it, and 
there would be little rest for him day or night. 
It would be all the harder this year for the 
vicar’s illness, for he had always been at hand 
before to help where he could, and to say a word 
of comfort to the bereaved ; so that the poor, 
hard-worked doctor may be forgiven for in-, 
dulging some gloomy reflections, and suggest- 
ing the next day that Walter and Lucy should 
be sent home at once, for fear he should have 
two more patients on his hands. 

So Tim was dispatched with a message to 
Mr. Maxwell, who came the day following, in 
no small perplexity as to what he should do 
with his son and daughter ; for it was as dan- 
gerous to take them home as to leave them 
here, for Mary and her mother had both been 
taken ill with the fever, which threatened to 
become more widespread in its ravages this 
year than ever it had been before. 


6 1 


An English Village . 

After a consultation with the doctor it was 
decided to send them in the vicar’s coach to a 
cousin, who lived at Gloucester. Here they 
would be out of all danger; and, although Lucy 
begged to go home and help nurse her mother, 
and Walter pleaded to be allowed to stay with 
his uncle, the coach was ordered out, and Mr. 
Maxwell drove away with them as soon as the 
matter was settled, the doctor accompanying 
them on the first stage of the journey to try 
and get the help of another physician for the 
task that awaited him. 

The two gentlemen had met Jbefore, and now 
had some discussion upon what was considered 
the doctor’s hobby, which Mr. Maxwell, like so 
many others, was inclined to laugh at as a wild, 
hare-brained scheme, which, if it could be car- 
ried out, would only give the peasants notions 
above their station, and lead to all sorts of 
evils. 

“ But what evil could be greater than the 
present reign of dirt brings upon us ? To say 
nothing of this fever with which we are period- 
ically visited, and which sweeps off nearly a 
third of the population each time, visiting alike 
rich and poor for their neglect of the laws of 
health and decency — to say nothing of this, 
see how it drives the men to the ale-house to 


6 2 


Walter. 


drink away the few senses God has given them, 
while the women and children are half-starved 
and ill-used to pay for the men’s indulgence.” 

“ And where would you have them go, if 
not to the ale-house ? ” said Mr. Maxwell, 
when he had sufficiently recovered from his as- 
tonishment to be able to speak. “ What are 
the poor men to do if they cannot drink their 
mug of beer and have some manly sport when 
the day’s work is over ? ” 

“ Well, I would have them do something for 
the making home more comfortable and home- 
like, if such a thing be possible,” said the 
doctor. 

“ But it is not possible, sir ; and if you will 
take a word of advice from a friend and an old 
man, you will be careful not to mention these 
revolutionary notions of yours to every body, 
or you will be charged with being a Jacobin, 
and that may bring your house down about 
your ears some fine morning. What do the 
peasants themselves say to your idea of com- 
fort for them ? ” 

The doctor shook his head. “ They are too 
dull and besotted to be expected to adopt 
them, and half the popularity of my good 
friend, the vicar, is because he will not interfere 
with them or their prejudices.” 


An English Village. 63 

“To be sure, my dear sir, my brother-in-law 
is too wise a man to knock his head against a 
wall that would give him nothing but the blow 
for his trouble. Leave the peasants alone to 
go their own way, and — ” 

“ My dear sir, I must differ from you in this 
opinion about the vicar’s wisdom in letting 
things alone. This policy is the curse of the 
Church in this age, and if half of the ability 
spent in writing apologies for the Christian re- 
ligion were directed to fighting the enemies of 
Christ — the ignorance and prejudice and irre- 
ligion that abound every-where — there would 
be no need to apologize for its presence in the 
world. But now I fully acknowledge the con- 
sistency of our present theology and preaching 
being apologetic, and striving to justify by 
words its presence in the world ; for now it 
has ceased to fight the enemies outside itself ; 
now, when there is no longer any need for 
watchfulness against the Pope and Jesuits, it 
has laid aside the sword and gone to sleep, in- 
stead of using it against the enemies that are 
rampant in every age — sin and Satan — who are 
more powerful than the Pope, and more de- 
ceitful than the Jesuits.” 

“ My dear sir, I cannot follow you in this 
argument, for I do not pretend to under- 


Walter. 


64 

stand theology,” said Mr. Maxwell, with a slight 
yawn. “ I have enough to do to look after my 
own work-people, to see that they do their 
work — a fair day’s work for a fair day’s wage.” 

“But don’t you think you have something 
more to consider than the amount of labor 
your men can expend for you — that you have 
a right to consider their interests as well as 
your own, and show some consideration for 
their welfare ? ” 

“Well, well, I can meet you there; and I 
may tell you that my work-people live round 
about the foundry and the house, and there is 
not much goes on among them but my dame 
knows all about it. She helps to provide all 
the christening feasts, and gives the lasses a 
trifle when they marry, if they are deserving 
wenches ; and I will say this for them, there is 
not a man or woman among them but would 
serve me and mine by night or by day.” 

This was no idle boast of Mr. Maxwell’s. 
He lived as a friend, as well as a master, among 
his work-people, and they were true and loyal 
to him, giving him faithful service without 
grudging, and ready, as he said, to serve him 
day or night. It was not the age of big fac- 
tories, where men made colossal fortunes, that 
proved but walls of gold to separate them from 


An English Village. 65 

those who had helped to make it. The 
master’s dwelling and the workmen’s cottages 
were* close to the factory, or foundry, or mill, 
and the near neighborhood of rich and poor 
gave opportunity for those little acts of kind- 
ness and neighborliness that are such strong 
silken threads in binding man to man, and 
bridging over the gulf of social difference that 
now threatens to rend modern society into 
two opposing camps. There were no trade 
disputes in those days ; and men thought more 
of their duties and less of their rights — both 
masters and men. So Mr. Maxwell could hold 
his own with the doctor in this part of the ar- 
gument, though doubtless the seed that has 
since borne such bitter fruit was then being 
sown by this very let-alone policy that the 
doctor was denouncing. 

Walter and Lucy listened, as well as they 
could, to the talk going on between their father 
and the doctor ; but the jolting and bumping 
along the ill-kept country roads did not make 
listening very easy, unless they were two eager 
disputants, who put their heads as close to- 
gether as they could with safety, without 
knocking each other. 

Ten miles brought the doctor to his desti- 
nation, and our travelers to the end of the 


66 


Walter. 


first stage of their journey. Here they changed 
horses, rested for an hour at the inn, made them- 
selves acquainted with the best road to take, 
and then went on again a few miles farther, 
where they put up for the night. They were 
on the road again early the next morning, for 
Mr. Maxwell was anxious to get back to his 
wife and daughter ; but, early as it was, it 
seemed as though the whole town was awake 
and up before them ; for crowds thronged the 
road along which they were driving, making it 
impossible to get at any speed, until at last 
they were stopped altogether by a dense mass 
of people, who were singing a hymn with won- 
derful enthusiasm and in accurate time. 

Such a sight as this Mr. Maxwell had never 
seen before, and he jumped out of the coach to 
learn what could be the meaning of it. Wal- 
ter and Lucy soon followed, and found them- 
selves in the midst of a crowd of people of 
all sorts and ages. But they and their coach 
were alike unheeded, for the eager gaze of the 
multitude was fixed upon a tall, slender-built 
man, whose fair hair was just waved by the 
morning breeze, and whose light blue eyes 
added to the sweetness of his expressive face. 
But they, like the rest, were soon too much ab- 
sorbed in listening to the preacher’s words to 


An English Village . 67 

notice his looks or criticise the tones of his 
rich melodious voice. 

The first words Walter consciously heard 
came like a thrill of sweet music from anoth- 
er world : “ Having, therefore, brethren, bold- 
ness to enter into the Holiest, by the blood 
of Jesus, by a new and living way which he 
hath consecrated for us — that is to say, his 
flesh ; let us draw near with a true heart, in 
full assurance of faith, having our hearts 
sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our 
bodies washed with pure water.” Then fol- 
lowed an invitation to enter into the “ Holiest,” 
even God himself, through faith in the all- 
atoning blood of Christ, and an exhortation 
so fervid in its impassioned eloquence that 
most of the assembly were moved to tears, and 
many cried aloud upon God to have mercy 
upon them. 

For nearly an hour Mr. Maxwell stood at 
the side of the coach, listening to the sermon, 
and making no effort to proceed on his jour- 
ney. They were at the edge of a common ; 
and with a little bustling and threatening on 
the part of the coachman a way could soon 
have been cleared through the crowd, but 
master and man were alike too enthralled to 
think of any thing but the preacher before 
5 


68 


Walter. 


them, and the words of life he was uttering in 
such sweet, pleading tones of persuasion, as 
though his whole soul was throbbing with the 
thought that he was an embassador for God, 
pleading with them for Christ’s sake to be rec- 
onciled to God. 

Any thing more unlike the cold, dry preach- 
ing of the orthodox Churches of the day could 
not be imagined ; and Mr. Maxwell was visibly 
moved, though he tried to hide his emotion 
from Walter and Lucy. 

When the service was over Walter asked a 
woman standing near who the preacher was ? 
She stared at him for a moment in surprise, 
and as if pitying his ignorance, and then said : 
“ Have you never heard Mr. Whitefield be- 
fore?” 

Walter shook his head. “ I have never 
heard any thing like this before,” he said. 

“ Then you have never heard Mr. Wesley? ” 
said the woman. 

“ No, never. Does he preach like this Mr. 
Whitefield ? Do people listen to him so 
eagerly?” 

“ Ah, that they do ! men hang upon his 
words as though an angel were speaking. God 
is doing mighty works by Mr. Wesley and Mr. 
Whitefield/’ 


An English Village. 69 

As the crowd began to move, the Maxwells 
got into their coach and drove on their way, 
too deeply moved to talk of what they had 
heard just yet, though Lucy contrived to 
whisper to Walter, “ I am glad that Mr. 
Whitefield is not a Methodist.” Her brother 
made no reply. 


7 ° 


Walter. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE CATHEDRAL CLOSE. 

UR travelers were three days upon the 



v/ road, and by the time Gloucester was 
reached they were thoroughly tired of their 
journey, and heartily glad to reach the un- 
paved, undrained, and not over-clean town. 

The drive through the streets of low, project- 
ing houses, swarming now with girls and boys 
just leaving one of the pin factories, to the 
Cathedral Close, was any thing but inviting; 
for a party of men were being publicly 
flogged as rogues and vagabonds, to the evi- 
dent amusement of the young factory hands, 
who had collected to see the sight. 

But the precinct of the cathedral once being 
gained, the noisy shouts and oaths were left 
behind, for every thing was eminently respect- 
able, as only the clergy and their families lived 
here. 

Mr. Maxwell's sister was the widow of a 
canon, and she had lived under the cathedral 
shadow for nearly forty years. She had no 
family of her own, and had often desired that 


The Cathedral Close . 


7 1 


her niece and nephew might come and stay 
with her ; for increasing age and the perils and 
fatigues of traveling made it almost impossible 
for her to visit them. She therefore welcomed 
them now most warmly, and declared that they 
should stay with her until Mary came for her 
winter visit to Bath. 

Mr. Maxwell was anxious to return home at 
once, and so would only stay long enough to 
rest himself and his horses before he com- 
menced his homeward journey ; but, short as 
the time was, he told his sister of the wonder- 
ful sermon he had heard preached by Mr. 
Whitefield. 

“ I hope you are not touched with this 
Methodist craze,” she said, looking keenly at 
Walter and Lucy. 

“ No, no, Euphrasia ; we are not Method- 
ists ; we do not take to new-fangled ways very 
quickly,” said her brother; “ but we could not 
help hearing Mr. Whitefield, and it seems a 
pity that a few more parsons cannot preach as 
he does.” 

“Cannot!” repeated the dame hotly ; “would 
you have well-born clergymen preach the rude 
fanaticism of a tapster ? I remember George 
Whitefield as a dirty little rascal who robbed 
his mother’s till. She kept an ale-house in 


72 


Walter. 


this town and sold good ale — I will say that for 
her ; and when our own home-brewed was out 
or turned sour, we sent to Dame Whitefield 
for a supply, and young George would often 
bring it. I remember him being ordained, too. 
The Bishop had heard of his labors among the 
poor and the prisoners at the castle, and sent 
for him one evening to tell him he would or- 
dain him at once, though he was two years 
younger than he usually ordained young men ; 
and if he had been content to do his duty as 
other clergymen did, Dr. Benson would have 
helped him to a good living ; but, you see, he 
had met with the Wesleys at Oxford, and joined 
their Society of Methodists, and that has 
ruined him.” 

“ Then you think Mr. Wesley is answerable 
for Whitefield’s departure from the beaten 
track ? ” said Mr. Maxwell. 

“ Yes, to be sure ; for he taught him this doc- 
trine of a new birth, or conversion, and now, 
forsooth, no one can be saved unless he is 
converted, according to Mr. John Wesley. 
He makes little or no account of the sacra- 
ments or the Church, but a person must have 
the Spirit of God, whatever that may mean. 
But, then, as I used to say to Dr. Benson, it is 
in the blood. Wesley’s grandfather was eject- 


The Cathedral Close. 


73 


ed from his living for nonconformity, and 
though his father was a good enough clergy- 
man, the old rebellion against the laws and 
rules of the Church has broken out, as we see, 
in the grandson ; and though he may deny it, 
he is nothing less than a Dissenter and schis- 
matic, troubling the peace of the Church as he 
does.” 

The lady had almost talked herself out of 
breath, but her audience were eating as well 
as listening, and Walter, at least, was inter- 
ested. “Do you know Mr. Wesley, aunt ? ” he 
asked. 

“ I knew him when he was a boy. My hus- 
band’s first curacy was near Epworth, in Lin- 
colnshire, and we sometimes went to see Par- 
son Wesley and his wife. They were a worthy 
couple ; he as learned and devout a parson as 
any in the country, and she was a worthy help- 
meet, helping him in his parish work, as well 
as teaching and training her children in the 
ways of godliness. Dame Wesley went beyond 
me, and caused some scandal herself at one 
time ; for when her husband was absent and 
there was no afternoon service in the church, 
she took the office upon herself and read the 
lessons and prayers in their own kitchen, at 
home, to all who liked to come, which savored 


74 


Walter. 


too much of the ways of the Dissenters, in 
which she had been brought up ; for she, too, 
was a Dissenter, you must know — Dr. Annes- 
ley, her father, being an ejected minister, as 
well as Wesley’s father.” 

“ He comes of a good stock, though,” re- 
marked Mr. Maxwell ; “ and if he would only 
take things more quietly he might be an orna- 
ment to the Church.” 

“ To be sure he might. Sometimes I think 
he must be a fool as well as a fanatic, for he 
might be made a Bishop, instead of strolling 
about the country preaching more sermons in 
a month than he need to preach in a year, and 
trying to set the world to rights, whether it 
likes it or not.” 

“ I hear he has been woefully set upon some- 
times,” said Mr. Maxwell, setting down the 
silver-rimmed horn of ale he had just filled. 

“ Set upon ! The mob have more than once 
well-nigh pulled the house down to get at him. 
Once, when I was at Bristol, there was a riot 
about him, and I thought the people would 
have torn me to pieces or trodden me to death, 
for they were like wild beasts in their rage 
against him. It was not until the peace offi- 
cers had arrested some dozen of the ringlead- 
ers that quiet was restored. Nothing could 


The Cathedral Close . 


7 5 


be more disgraceful or more scandalous than 
the scenes John Wesley has contrived to get 
into. I do not wonder that the curate of Ep- 
worth should refuse to administer the sacra- 
ments to him, or allow him to preach in the 
church ; and, though they say Mr. Romley was 
stupidly drunk when he did it, what can we 
think of Wesley’s preaching on his father’s 
grave, the church-yard being full of people ? 
O, the mischief that man has done to the 
Church no one can calculate ! ” 

“ But if he has made the world a little bet- 
ter, aunt ? ” objected Walter. 

“ My dear, you know nothing about it. The 
Church has nothing to do with the world, or 
clergymen either,” and Dame Summerlin 
waved her hand majestically, as if to sweep 
away all objections to her statement. 

Mr. Maxwell had grown tired of her dis- 
course about the Wesleys, and took up the 
local paper — the “Gloucester Journal ” — which 
was considered a wonder of excellence in its 
day, though scarcely larger than a sheet of 
foolscap, and containing little or no parliament- 
ary news, reports of debates being forbidden 
at this time. Mr. Maxwell had oft^n seen this 
newspaper on his visits to Gloucester, and he 
knew that its spirited editor, Mr. Raikes, had 


Walter. 


76 

got himself into trouble more than once with 
the House of Commons for reporting their de- 
bates. But if he could not keep his readers 
informed upon parliamentary matters, his news- 
paper was a noble exception to most of those 
of the time, which pandered to the low tastes 
and frivolous, often vicious, pastimes that were 
the prevailing fashion of those days. “ I see 
Mr. Raikes has another appeal here for the 
poor prisoners in the castle,” said Mr. Max- 
well. “ What a horrible account this is of the 
prison ! God save us from ever getting into 
debt, and through that into Gloucester Castle ! 
The printer says : ‘ Persons imprisoned for 
debt, of whom there is always a large number, 
are huddled together in a miserable cell, four- 
teen feet by eleven, without windows, and with 
no provision for admitting light and air save a 
hole broken in the plaster wall. No provision 
is made to keep them alive. No allowance 
was granted them either of food or money, 
nor was any opportunity given them of earn- 
ing any thing. For food and clothing they 
are entirely dependent upon the charity of the 
benevolent.’ Dear heart, was any thing so 
shocking ! ” exclaimed Mr. Maxwell. “ If Mr. 
Wesley, or somebody else, would only think 
it worth his while to get the prisons amended 


The Cathedral Close . 


77 


and the poor prisoners cared for, the world 
would not grumble. Walter, you shall go 
down to Palace-yard and take the good printer 
a guinea for the prisoners ; and now let us see 
what he says about some of the quality.” 

But his sister shook her head and laughed. 
“You will find no personal scandal in Mr. 
Raikes’ paper, and as for Walter taking the 
guinea, I expect young Robert here to-mor- 
row, for I sometimes lend the lad a book that 
would not otherwise come in his way. A likely 
lad is young Bob, as kind-hearted and as up- 
right as his father. He is about your age, too, 
Walter, or a trifle older ; so you will be com- 
panions for each other.” 

Dame Summerlin had no children’s “ sum- 
mer parlor,” or delightful old lumber-room, 
such as they had at home or their uncle’s par- 
sonage, and before they had been long in 
Gloucester they began to wish their visit was 
near its end, in spite of their aunt’s laborious 
efforts to amuse and interest them ; and but 
for the intimacy that sprung up with the print- 
er’s family it would have been almost unen- 
durable. It was hard enough for Lucy now to 
stand at the window, watching for any chance 
visitor to the Close, or looking over her aunt’s 
library of theological books in search of some- 


78 


Walter. 


thing more entertaining than Hooker or Til- 
lotson could supply. Sometimes she was al- 
lowed to go for a walk with her brother, or to 
make a formal call upon some of the families 
of the clergy with her aunt, and occasionally 
go to see the printer's family with Walter ; 
but Dame Summerlin was of opinion that her 
niece had been allowed far too much liberty in 
running about with her brother and sharing 
his amusements, and determined to curtail it ; 
so while Walter was allowed to go and spend 
hours with Robert Raikes, watching the print- 
ing machine and the setting up of the type, 
or talking about his models with his new-found 
friend, his sister had to sit and read to her 
aunt, or work at the detested lace-making, 
varied only by a little idle time spent at the 
window, and a little furtive gossip with Walter 
about what he saw and heard at the printer’s, 
and what he thought of young Robert Raikes. 

“You would like him, Lucy; he is as full 
of hopes and plans as we are, only I don’t see 
how he is going to get the things done that 
he wants, for I suppose the prisons here are 
not worse than others, and how can one man 
get so much changed? And then, how are the 
children — all the poor children who work in 
the pin factories — to be taught to read?" 


The Cathedral Close . 


79 


“ Of course they cannot. But surely Robert 
Raikes has no such wild notions as these. Why, 
they are worse than yours about making wheels 
go by steam,” laughed Lucy. 

“ Or yours, that you were talking about 
while we were at uncle’s — setting all the slaves 
at liberty,” retorted her brother. 

“ O, if I were only a man, I would do some- 
thing for that,” said Lucy, earnestly; “but now 
tell me about what you have heard in the 
town to-day ; for we are little better than 
dormice or cabbages here in this dull Close; 
the only change is going to the Cathedral 
sometimes. I do wish Christmas was next 
week, and we were going to meet Mary at 
Bath. But, now for the news.” 

“ Who told you I had any news, Mistress 
Lucy?” asked Walter with twinkling eyes. 

“ I know you have ; I can see it in your 
face. Come, tell us what it is,” said Lucy 
impatiently. 

“ Guess now.” 

But Lucy shook her head. “ If it is a party 
of strolling players, I don’t believe aunt will 
let us go ; she has such notions about things. 
I’m not sure but she would let us go to a bull- 
baiting or a cock-fight,” said Lucy. 

“ She wouldn’t keep me away from any 


8o 


Walter. 


manly sport, I know/’ said Walter defiantly; 
“ but I haven’t heard of strolling players, or a 
cock-fight either; only five men are to be hung 
next week, and I think aunt will let us go to 
the sight. But mind, you are not to say a 
word to her about it ; leave me to manage it, 
and I think she will let you go.” 

Walter did not say how he was going to 
manage it, and Lucy did not inquire. She 
was in an ecstasy of delight at the prospect ; 
for, although the hanging men in batches was 
of weekly, almost daily, occurrence in some 
part of the country or the other, the isolated 
little town where they lived was not privileged 
to hang its own criminals, and Mr. Maxwell 
had never found time to take a long journey 
that they might witness a sight that most of 
the people looked upon as affording them a 
public holiday. 

Gloucester would take holiday to see the 
sight : some few moved with pity for the con- 
demned men — condemned, for the most part, 
for some trivial offense ; for the Draconic laws 
punished with death many offenses then that 
a few months or years’ imprisonment would 
expiate now. 

It mattered little to Walter what the men’s 
offenses might be; he was determined Lucy 


The Cathedral Close. 81 

should see the sight ; and so, to secure a good 
place, they set off early in the morning from 
the Close, before Dame Summerlin made her 
appearance ; for the fact was, Walter had 
taken care not to say any thing about the 
hanging to his aunt, for fear she should refuse 
to let them go. 

But, early as they were, a crowd had assem- 
bled near the scaffold before them, and as 
they drew nearer they saw that some one was 
preaching. It was not Mr. Whitefield, but an 
old man, who was telling his audience that he 
had been a soldier, and as near death as the 
poor wretches he had visited in the castle the 
day before, but God in his mercy had saved 
both body and soul, and given him a message 
to deliver to every man he should meet — a 
message of mercy, of salvation by faith. 

Some of the crowd listened, and some jeered, 
for, earnest as the old man was, he had none 
of the persuasive eloquence of Whitefield, or 
his easy grace of manner ; his voice was harsh 
and coarse, and his appearance decidedly vul- 
gar. 

If it had not been that she would have lost 
her chance of seeing the hanging, Lucy would 
have turned back again. “ What a pest these 
Methodists are!” she said aloud to Walter; 


82 


Walter. 


“ I think if Mr. Wesley could be hung one of 
these days, it would be a good thing for every 
body.” 

“ Hush, hush, Lucy; Mr. Wesley may be 
here — this may be Mr. Wesley himself,” said 
Walter, who was listening to the preacher with 
a good deal more reverence than his sister. 

But Lucy shook her head. “ He is one of 
Wesley’s Methodists, but I don’t believe Mr. 
Wesley can be coarse and vulgar, or — or — ” 
Whatever Lucy was going to say she thought 
it better to leave unsaid, but went on grum- 
bling against the Methodists, much to Wal- 
ter’s annoyance, who was deeply interested in 
listening to the old man’s sermon, despite his 
personal appearance. 

After preaching nearly an hour a hymn was 
sung, and then the old man said : “ My young 
brother here desires to say a word to you, 
good people, and I hope you will listen to him 
with as much patience as you have listened to 
my poor words.” 

'‘Can’t we get away before he begins?” said 
Lucy, turning her back upon the preaching- 
stand, which had been placed near the scaffold, 
that the Methodists might have an opportun- 
ity of saying a few words to the condemned 
men. 


The Cathedral Close. 


33 


‘‘Look, look, Lucy!” said Walter, stretching 
himself as high as he could to gaze over the 
heads of the mob. 

“ No, I wont look,” said Lucy, resolutely 
turning her head the other way. “ How long 
will it be before the prisoners leave the castle, 
I wonder? ” 

“They wont be here just yet, mistress,” said 
a decent-looking woman at her elbow : “ but 
*tis mighty civil of the Methodists to come 
and amuse us while we wait.” 

“ I don’t want to be amused,” said Lucy, 
turning from the woman with some haughti- 
ness, and so facing the preachers once more. 

The young man had begun to speak now, 
and as the first tones of his voice fell upon 
Lucy’s ears she started and turned pale. 

“Walter, who is it?” she whispered, seizing 
her brother’s arm and leaning upon him for 
support ; for she felt as though she were fall- 
ing to the ground. 

“ Hush, hush ! don’t you hear? Look, you 
can see him now ; ” and Walter pushed her 
forward toward an opening in the crowd. 

But instead of looking Lucy buried her face 
in her hands, and shrieked aloud, “ Take me 
away, Walter — take me home ! I cannot, will 
not see him disgrace himself like this; only 
6 


8 4 


Walter. 


tell me, is it — is it really Horace Golding ?” 
she said, dropping her voice into a supplicating 
whisper. 

“ Hush, Lucy, he will hear you. Yes, it is 
Horace, of course; but don’t talk of going 
home now. We will go and speak to him 
when he has finished preaching.’* 

Lucy looked as though she did not under- 
stand her brother. “ Go and speak to him ! ” 
she. repeated — “speak to Horace Golding, the 
Methodist preacher! You must be mad, 
Walter. I will never speak to him again — 
never see him again if I can help it,” and with 
a haughty gesture she turned away, determined 
to lose the sight she had so often wished to 
see, rather than risk a meeting with her old 
friend. 


Methodist Madness . 


85 


CHAPTER VI. 

METHODIST MADNESS. 

ALTER walked home with his sister as 



V V far as the Close, but he would not go 
indoors. They had not spoken since they left 
the crowd, but as Walter stopped he said, 
“ Have you any message to send to Horace, 
Lucy ? I am going back now, and I shall try 
to speak to him.” 

“You may tell him he has disgraced him- 
self and all his friends. I have nothing more 
to say,” replied Lucy, haughtily, and she turned 
away, but watched her brother out of the Close. 

“Where have you been, Lucy?” asked Dame 
Summerlin, coming upon her as she still stood 
looking after Walter. 

Lucy looked at her aunt for a moment as 
if trying to recollect the object of her walk 
that morning, and at last she said, “ We went 
to see the men hung, aunt, but the Method- 
ists were there preaching, and so I came home 
again.” 

“ Quite right, Lucy, quite right ; I am glad 
Whitefield has not turned your head, as he 


86 


Walter. 


does most people’s/’ said Dame Summerlin, in 
a satisfied tone; and in her fierce invectives 
against the Methodists she forgot to scold 
Lucy for going out without permission, and 
seemed to think she was in less danger of 
moral contamination from the sight of an 
execution than from listening to a sermon 
preached in the open air. 

But although Lucy was vexed and hurt at 
the part Horace Golding had taken, and was 
prepared to turn her back upon him, she was 
not pleased with the wholesale denunciation 
dealt out by her aunt against all the followers 
of Mr. Wesley, and with a strange perversity 
felt half offended at it, wishing some one was 
there who could say a word in their defense. 
But none of Dame Summerlin’s friends were 
likely to do this. They each had something 
to say — some story to tell about the Meth- 
odists and their vulgar zeal, and the low, ill- 
bred mob that followed them, either as friends 
or foes; but Lucy could not but notice that no 
one accused them of any thing beyond this. 

They paid a long round of visits that day, 
she and Dame Summerlin, and arranged to 
go with some of them to Cheltenham during 
the King’s visit, that they might see him 4 and 
the royal family walking about the fashionable 


Methodist Madness. 


87 

promenade ; for Cheltenham was at this time 
almost as fashionable as Bath. Of course, 
Lucy was delighted at the prospect of such a 
treat, and as soon as Walter came home she 
ran to tell him the news, expecting he would be 
as anxious to go and see King George as she 
was. But, to her surprise, Walter received her 
news very coolly, merely remarking, “ I don’t 
know whether I shall be able to go, Lucy.” 

“ Not be able to go ! ” repeated Lucy. 
“ Don’t you want to see the King ? ” 

“ I’ve only just learned to see myself,” re- 
plied Walter; and, with a groan, he rushed past 
his sister up to his own room. 

Lucy was greatly alarmed, and followed him 
at once, fearing he was ill ; and she was scarce- 
ly less assured when, after knocking for some 
minutes at the little bed-room door, she opened 
it, and saw Walter lying upon the floor groan- 
ing in anguish, “ Lost ! lost ! lost ! ” 

“ What have you lost, Walter ? ” asked his 
sister tenderly, kneeling beside him, and trying 
to take his hand, feeling sure he must be very 
ill. 

“ I am lost, ruined ; my soul is given up to 
the devil,” groaned Walter. 

Lucy was more alarmed than ever, and ran 
down-stairs to fetch her aunt. “ It’s the fever, 


88 


Walter. 


aunt, I am sure,” she said, after giving an ac- 
count of how she had found her brother. 

‘‘ It’s Methodist fever,” snapped Dame Sum- 
merlin, as she toiled up the stairs to Wal- 
ter’s room. He still lay upon the floor in a 
state of semi-unconsciousness, groaning out his 
soul-anguish, and not noticing his aunt or 
sister. 

“ Come, come, Walter,” said Dame Sum- 
merlin, shaking him by the shoulder ; “ get up 
and tell us what ails you. Are you ill ? ” 

But Walter only groaned, “ Lost ! lost ! 
My soul is in hell already ! ” 

“ I thought so ! ” exclaimed the old lady, 
angrily. “ It’s a Methodist fit. Was there 
ever any thing more disgraceful ? Walter ! 
Walter ! do rouse yourself and be more sensi- 
ble. Remember, you are in the Cathedral 
Close, living among the clergy.” 

But Walter was deaf alike to his aunt’s 
scolding and Lucy’s pleading, except as he 
said, “ I am a lost sinner. I am disgraceful 
and ungrateful, and God has cast me off for- 
ever.” 

“ O aunt, he must be very ill. I never heard 
him talk like this before,” said Lucy, the tears 
running down her cheeks as she spoke. 

“ I dare say not ; but / have heard of these 


Methodist Madness . 


89 

fits before. It all comes of running after the 
Methodists, and I should like to whip him.” 

“ Aunt, you are unkind ! ” said Lucy indig- 
nantly, trying to soothe Walter’s distress. 

“ Pray for me, Lucy ; pray for me. I am 
too wicked. God will never hear my prayers,” 
begged Walter. 

“ Aunt, if you don’t send for a doctor, I 
will. I am sure Walter has caught the fever, 
and is going mad,” said Lucy, turning upon 
her aunt with hot indignation. 

Dame Summerlin hesitated for a moment, 
but at last, thinking it would perhaps be bet- 
ter — would endanger the respectability of the 
Close less — to treat this as a physical ailment, 
and ignore the Methodism altogether, she re- 
solved to send for a doctor at once. 

So, with a hint to Lucy not to say a word 
about where they had been in the morning, 
she sent her elderly maid-servant with a mes- 
sage to say she feared her nephew had been 
seized with fever— for fever was less danger- 
ous than Methodism, she thought, and far 
more respectable. 

The doctor was a plain-spoken old gentle- 
man, and very soon discovered that Walter’s 
ailment was mental rather than bodily; and, 
with ft hftge pinch of snuff and a slight pre- 


90 


Walter. 


liminary cough, he said, “You have sent* for 
the wrong person 'this time, madam ; there 
may be a little disorder of the stomach and 
liver, but that is not the first thing that re- 
quires attention. The young gentleman has 
been with the Methodists. They were preach- 
ing this morning, as you may have heard.” 

If the doctor had said Walter had been with 
a band of highwaymen Dame Summerlin could 
not have been more shocked. This was worse 
than all — to have the doctor know what had 
happened — and in her helplessness she said, 
“ Dear heart! doctor, what am I to do?” 

“ The lad is certainly very unhappy, but I 
have known wonderfully speedy cures among 
the Methodists, where the case was properly 
understood.” 

“ To be sure, doctor ; that is what I want. 
I want him cured of this ailment, whatever it 
may be,” said the old lady, in a confidential 
whisper, thinking that the doctor might cer- 
tainly dose his patient into a reasonable for- 
getfulness very soon, and then in a day or two 
she would take him and Lucy to Cheltenham 
tQ see the grand sights there, which might be 
expected to drive all serious thoughts out 
of his mind. 

The doctor thought he fully understood the 


Methodist Madness. 


9 1 


lady's meaning, and, with a re-assuring nod, 
he said, “ Be sure, madam, I will be very dis- 
creet. Let my messenger see your nephew 
alone for an hour, and I think I can promise 
he shall be better in the morning. I will send 
some one to him without delay, and do you 
leave them to themselves for awhile, and we 
shall see how my cure works ; ” and, with an- 
other nod, he took up his silver-headed walk- 
ing-stick and went out, never dreaming but 
that he fully understood Dame Summerlin and 
her difficulty, while she, with equal confidence, 
gave orders to the servant that when the doc- 
tor’s messenger came he was to be conducted 
at once to Walter’s room. 

She and Lucy were going to a card-party 
next door, and she determined to go now, 
although Lucy pleaded very hard to be al- 
lowed to stay with Walter. 

“ No, no, my dear ; the doctor is going to 
send him a sleeping potion, or something of 
that kind, and the messenger will stay for an 
hour to watch its effect, so that you could do 
nothing in here, and we may want you to take 
a hand at whist.” 

But it so happened that Lucy was not wanted 
at the card-tables this evening, and so, after 
seeing her aunt quietly settled to her game, 


9 2 


Walter. 


she wandered to the window to look out upon 
the quiet Close, and wonder what could be the 
meaning of Walter’s curious illness. 

She had not stood here very long when, in 
the gathering dusk, she saw a figure that 
struck her as familiar, and, looking more in- 
tently as he passed close to the window, she 
recognized Horace Golding, and, to her aston- 
ishment, saw him go to her aunt’s house, 
and walk in as soon as the door was opened. 

She was in such a flutter of astonishment 
that she could not move or speak for a minute 
or two, and did not hear herself called until a 
hand was laid upon her shoulder, and her 
aunt said rather sternly, “ Lucy, are you 
asleep ? ” 

She started then as though she had been 
caught in the commission of some crime, but 
her aunt would not see her confusion. “ Come, 
we want you to take a hand at whist,” she 
said, leading her to the card-table ; for one or 
two more visitors had come in, and another 
party was being made up. 

Lucy sat down and took the cards as they 
were handed her, and tried to take some in- 
terest in the game ; but her thoughts were with 
Walter, and she was wondering why he had 
asked Horace to visit him, knowing, as he did, 


Methodist Madness. 


93 

how much her aunt detested all Methodists. 
It seemed as though the evening would never 
come to an end ; for Lucy had never felt so 
tired of playing whist in her life before, and 
never was there a more provoking partner than 
Lucy proved that evening. 

Her aunt grew so cross, at last, that she 
suggested Lucy had better go home and go to 
bed, if she was too sleepy to play ; a hint Lucy 
was glad to take, and she said, “ Thank you, 
aunt.- I am very sleepy to-night. I shall be 
glad to go indoors,” and, bidding the company 
“ good-night,” she hurried away. 

“ Kitty, who has been here to-night ? ” she 
asked as soon as the servant opened the door. 

“ Only the young doctor to see your brother, 
Mistress Lucy.” 

“ The young doctor ! ” repeated Lucy. 
“ How is Walter now ? ” she asked. 

“ Better, I think. I heard him singing a 
little while ago.” 

“ Singing ! Where ? where is the young 
gentleman, the doctor, who came to see 
him ? ” 

“ He’s gone — been gone about ten minutes. 
Shall I light the candles' in the wainscoted 
parlor, Mistress Lucy?” 

‘‘Not for me; I am going to bed after I 


94 


Walter. 


have seen my brother. Good-night, Betty;” 
and Lucy took her bedroom candle and hur- 
ried up stairs to her brother’s room. 

“Walter, may I come in?” she called as she 
knocked at the door. 

“Yes, yes, come in,” he said, opening the 
door for her. “ O Lucy, Christ has saved me ; 
saved me , a poor, miserable wretch like me ! ” 
He did not notice how Lucy recoiled from him 
as he attempted to take her hand, for in the 
gladness of this new revelation of Christ’s love 
to lost sinners he was so oblivious of all out- 
ward facts that he poured out the rapture 
of his soul as though it was necessary to its 
very life, while Lucy stood and stared in blank 
amazement and consternation. 

“ Then — you — are — a — Methodist ? ” she 
managed to say at last, hissing out the words, 
and holding up her hands as though if her 
brother touched her she would be contami- 
nated. 

“Yes, yes, Lucy, and I glory in the name. 
I am a believer in Christ — and in Mr. Wesley,” 
said Walter in a triumphant tone. 

“A believer in Mr. Wesley!” repeated Lu- 
cy, “the mean, cowardly Jacobite! I might 
have known it ; I might have known you had 
turned Methodist, or you would never have 


Methodist Madness. 95 

deceived my aunt, and told Betty that lie 
about Horace Golding being a doctor.” 

“ I tell a lie to bring Horace Golding here ! 
Lucy, you ought to know me better. I assure 
you — ” 

But Lucy would not listen to her brother. 
She turned proudly away, saying, “ I thought 
a Methodist might keep one spark of honor; 
but since you can tell a lie, and Horace Gold- 
ing act it, to deceive my aunt, you are worthy 
followers of the man who prayed for the return 
of the Pretender, and then denied it.” 

“ Lucy, Lucy, you are unjust. I — ” 

But Lucy had hurried to her own room and 
shut the door, and, though Walter begged and 
pleaded for a few words of explanation, Lucy 
would not condescend to answer him or say 
another word, and Walter returned to his own 
room, feeling very sorry Lucy could so griev- 
ously misjudge him, but with no shade of 
bitterness in his heart against her: “ Dear, 
kind-hearted Lucy ! she will feel hurt and 
disappointed at first, but by and by she will 
learn the same wonderful truth, and we shall 
be dearer to each other than ever and, whis- 
pering this to himself, Walter kneeled down 
to pray that his dear sister might be led to 
Christ — taught to see herself as a lost, ruined 


Walter. 


96 

soul, but one for whom Christ had shed his 
precious blood. Then with the new, sweet 
“ peace of God which passeth all understand- 
ing’ 1 shed abroad in his heart, he crept into 
bed and soon fell asleep. 

He was sleeping soundly when Dame Sum- 
merlin — a little anxious as to the success of 
the doctor’s dosing — came and peeped into 
his room before she went to her own chamber. 
She went afterward to Lucy’s room, and Lucy, 
hearing her, shut her eyes; but there was little 
sleep for her that night. She lay tossing on 
her pillow, and wondering what Walter would 
do, and what she ought to do — whether she 
should tell her aunt about Horace’s visit, or 
let Walter keep his secret ; for she did not 
doubt but that the whole affair had been 
planned between the two during the day. 
Perhaps Horace had adopted it as a means 
of seeing her, and a little feeling of triumph 
and disappointment mingled with the other 
conflicting thoughts that passed through her 
mind. 

Toward morning she fell into a troubled 
doze, from which she was shortly awakened by 
her aunt’s voice calling to Walter, while at the 
same time Walter was solacing himself with 
singing something Lucy had never heard in 


Methodist Madness . 


97 


her life before. She sat up in bed and rubbed 
her eyes and listened, while Walter sang, clear 
and loud : — 

“ O what shall I do My Saviour to praise, 

So faithful and true, So plenteous in grace, 

So strong to deliver, So good to redeem 
The weakest believer That hangs upon him.” 

“ That must be a Methodist hymn,” mut- 
tered Lucy, springing out of bed, and opening 
the door just as her aunt appeared. 

“ What does this mean — Methodist hymns 
being sung in my house?” demanded the old 
lady, turning upon Lucy as though she had 
been the offender. 

“ I never heard it before, aunt,” said Lucy, 
while Walter’s voice rang out : — 

“For Jesus, my Lord, Is now my defense ; 

I trust in his word ” 

“ Walter, Walter, open the door this min- 
ute ! ” called his aunt ; and Lucy, who had run 
back to her own room to put on a petticoat, 
now came, and seized the handle and shook it; 
for Walter, to prevent any intrusion from his 
sister while he was praying, had slipped the 
bolt of the door and forgotten to push it back. 

‘‘How dare you bolt the door?” said his 
aunt, catching at this as the first cause of of- 
fense, while Lucy said, reproachfully, “Walter, 


9 8 


Walter. 


you were never ashamed of what you might 
be doing, or tried to hide any thing before.” 

“Well, I don’t think I am now,” said Wal- 
ter, with a smile. “I suppose you heard what 
I was doing. I was only singing.” 

“ Only singing ! ” repeated Dame Sum- 
merlin ; “ only singing disgraceful Methodist 
hymns in a respectable house, and under the 
very shadow of the Cathedral ! Walter Max- 
well, I am ashamed of you — ashamed and 
grieved that you could forget yourself and 
the honor due to your father and mother, and 
that—” 

“ Aunt, you are mistaken, indeed — ” 

“Will you deny that you are a Methodist?” 
demanded Lucy, angrily interrupting him. 

“No, I do not deny it; I glory in it;” said 
Walter, forgetting all the resolutions he had 
made to be calm and temperate in what he 
said. 

Dame Summerlin lifted her hands in amazed 
scorn. “You are a Methodist, and dare to 
own it in my house ! ” she said. 

“ Yes, aunt, I cannot but own it ; for, thank 
God, it is the truth. I deceived you yesterday 
morning and went out to see the hanging, and 
God sent a message to me there — a message 
of mercy and — ” 


Methodist Madness . 


99 


“ Stop, stop ! I’ll listen to no preaching. 
Wait until you get home before you begin 
that. I shall send a letter to your father by 
the king’s next post; and until I hear from 
him, or he comes to fetch you home, you shall 
not leave this room!” and, saying this, the old 
lady marched down stairs again. 

7 


IOO 


Walter. 


CHAPTER VII. 

WILL HE YIELD? 

D AME SUMMERLIN kept her word, and 
wrote a letter to Mr. Maxwell, and Lucy 
and she went out immediately after breakfast 
to inquire when the post would leave Glouces- 
ter, and how soon they might reasonably ex- 
pect a reply ; for postal arrangements were by 
no means regular in those days, and the send- 
ing and receiving a letter was an event to be 
thought of and arranged for with a good deal 
more care than we can well imagine in these 
days. 

The letter dispatched, Dame Summerlin be- 
gan to think of her other threat as the day 
wore on, and Walter remained quietly shut 
up in his room. Betty had taken his meals 
up to him, and came down with the request 
that his aunt would lend him a Bible to read, 
which was at once refused, as being likely to 
strengthen his Methodism, while at the same 
time Lucy sagely remarked that he was not 
likely to forget it, as he had nothing else to 
think of while he was shut up there. 


Will He Yield? ioi 

“ That’s true enough, Lucy, and I’ve been 
thinking your father will blame me for letting 
the foolish boy take to this distemper while 
he was with me ; and so I must do something 
to rid him of it, I think. Suppose we go to 
Cheltenham at once?” 

“ O yes, aunt, do,” said Lucy. “I am sure 
Walter will like to see all the grand sights, for 
we have never been to Bath.” 

‘‘Very well, then ; you may go and tell him 
we shall go to Cheltenham to-morrow, and he 
can practice dancing a minuet with you this 
evening; for we will have a gay time, my dear, 
and you shall both go to the dancing parties 
as well as the card parties, though I am past 
dancing myself.” 

So while Dame Summerlin went to give her 
orders to Betty about packing and preparing 
for their journey, Lucy went up to Walter to 
tell him the news of their prospective journey, 
and ask him to practice the dancing steps with 
her. Lucy was determined to be magnanimous, 
and forget and forgive her brother’s Method- 
ism, knowing it was the only way he could be 
sure to forget it too ; and she thought Walter 
would be only too glad to do this after spend- 
ing so many hours alone without a model 
steam-engine or books to amuse him. 


102 


Walter. 


But Walter was neither cross nor dull, as 
she expected to find him, and did not seem to 
stand in need of her cheering up ; neither was 
the news she brought so eagerly welcomed as 
she thought it deserved. 

“ What is the matter, Walter ? Are you 
really ill, that you don’t care whether you stay 
in this room or go to Cheltenham ? ” said 
Lucy. 

“ No, dear, I am not ill ; and I shall like to 
go to Cheltenham, of course, if you and aunt 
are going,” he said in a pleasant tone. 

“ You really would rather go to Chelten- 
ham than stay in this poky old house for a 
fortnight ? ” said Lucy. 

“ I should not like to stay here for a fort- 
night, of course, unless I had some books and 
models, and you and Robert Raikes to come 
and see me. But tell me why we are going to 
Cheltenham so suddenly ? ” he asked. 

“ Our health requires it. Aunt is ordered 
to drink the waters again. You understand ? ” 

“ No, I don’t understand,” said Walter. 
“ Aunt seems quite well. Father said he never 
saw her looking better. Is it on my account 
that we are going in such a hurry ? ” 

Lucy nodded. “ Aunt thinks it will do you 
good,” she said. 


Will He Yield ? 


103 


“ Then, Lucy, we may as well stay at home, 
for it will not do me good in the way she 
thinks, and I will not have a lie told on my 
account. I am a Methodist, and I don’t care 
who knows it, and — ” 

“You don’t care who else is disgraced by 
it,” interrupted Lucy, passionately. “ You 
talk about lying, too, and pretend you don’t 
like it, after what happened last night. Wal- 
ter, I will never own you for a brother again 
if you don’t give up this hateful Methodism.” 

“ Lucy, you are unjust to me and Horace, 
too. He was sent by the doctor that came 
first. My aunt knew he was coming, and — ” 

*•* Walter, how dare you utter such a thing? 
You know how much aunt hates the Method- 
ists. Is it likely she would send for one ? 
Listen now ; I will keep your secret, and never 
let any one know the mean deceit you and 
Horace have been guilty of, if you will promise 
never to see him or any other Methodist 
again.” 

Walter looked at her for a minute or two, 
and Lucy thought he was balancing the pro- 
posal in his own mind ; and she, thinking to 
make it certain, hastened to add : “ No one 
shall ever know about this Methodist fit either. 
We will take care to tell every body that we 


104 


Walter. 


are going to Cheltenham for the benefit of the 
waters, and my aunt will write another letter 
to father, telling him that he need not come to 
fetch us just yet.” 

“ Then, Lucy, you would not mind telling a 
lie to hide what you think is my disgrace ? ” 
said Walter rather sadly. 

“ It would not be a lie, exactly,” said Lucy, 
flushing, “ for we shall drink the waters when 
we are there, of course.” 

“ But that is not why we are going. O 
Lucy, I wish you could see things as I do now 
— that even this small lie, as you think it, is a 
sin against God — sin, Lucy, that drags our 
souls down to hell, that nailed the Lord Jesus 
Christ to the cross. Lucy, Lucy, I can’t let 
you do this for me. You love me, I know, 
and I love you ; but I can’t sin for you, and 
you sha’n’t for me if I can help it.” 

Lucy stared at her brother in blank amaze- 
ment. He was talking a language she could 
not understand. She had heard the word 
“ sin ” in church sometimes, but it had no 
meaning for her more than the other strange 
learned words that it would be presumption 
for her to try to understand, and so she could 
only say, “ What do you mean ? What are 
you talking about ? ” 


Will He Yield? 


105 


“ Come and sit down, Lucy, and let me try 
to explain ; and we will pray that the Holy 
Spirit may enlighten your mind, and — ” 

“ Come, come, you are a longtime beginning 
your minuet,” said Dame Summerlin, suddenly 
appearing at the open door. “ Come, Walter, 
you and Lucy must practice your danciiig- 
steps this evening, or you may feel awkward 
when we get to Cheltenham.” 

Walter looked confused. “ I don’t think I 
can dance,” he said. 

“ Nonsense, lad; you have learned the steps 
of a minuet, surely,” said Dame Summerlin ; 
and she lifted the sides of her stiff, quilted pet- 
ticoat, and went through a few slow stately 
steps in the door-way, by way of reminder. 

“ O we know that, aunt ! ” said Lucy, who 
was really very fond of dancing, although pol- 
kas and waltzes had not then been heard of. 
“ You know it too, Walter,” she said. “ Let 
us show aunt how well we can go* through it ; 
and if we have forgotten she can tell us where 
we are wrong, I dare say.” 

This was a delicate piece of flattery on Lu- 
cy’s part ; for she was so pleased at the idea 
of going to Cheltenham and joining in the gay 
doings there, that she was willing to do any 
thing to please her aunt now. But Walter, in- 


io6 


Walter. 


stead of taking his place opposite Lucy, to join 
in the minuet, said, rather slowly, “ Aunt, I 
wish you would not go to Cheltenham on my 
account.” 

“ Bless the boy ! who said I was going on 
your account ? ” exclaimed Dame Summerlin, 
while Lucy frowned threateningly at him. 
“ Come, come! now for the dancing,” said 
Dame Summerlin, impatiently. 

“ I will dance a minuet with Lucy here, if 
you like, aunt ; but I cannot and will not go 
to the dancing-parties at Cheltenham.” 

“ Hoity-toity ! who said you would be asked 
to go ? Cheltenham can exist without Walter 
Maxwell, I should think, especially as the King 
and the young princes and princesses will be 
there in a few days. Your vanity, young sir, 
needs some check, I fancy. Come, Lucy, come 
with me. I want you to choose a new cap and 
ribbons for yourself,” said Dame Summerlin, 
sending Lucy on before her, for she had heard 
something of what Walter was saying as she 
came up stairs, and foresaw fresh trouble in 
leaving the brother and sister together by 
themselves — for there might soon be two 
Methodists in the family, as she whispered to 
herself. So Lucy was carried off to her own 
chamber, and Walter was left to himself, to 


Will He Yield? 


107 


think over what he ought to do in the unex- 
pected circumstances before him. He felt sure 
this trip to Cheltenham was in some way con- 
nected with the change in himself ; that it was 
designed to make him forget his new thoughts 
and hopes and resolutions; and he resolved to 
be upon his guard. Of the rules laid down 
and particular amusements forbidden to those 
professing Methodism he knew nothing. He 
was but a babe in Christ, and he knew and 
feared his own weakness and ignorance ; but he 
also knew that the Lord Jesus had promised 
his Holy Spirit to those who seek it. This 
was the distinctive teaching of Methodism in 
those days — the new birth first, which Walter 
now believed in from his own experience, and 
then the enlightening and guiding influences 
of the Holy Spirit given to all who seek it ear- 
nestly and prayerfully. This had been the 
subject of Horace Golding’s talk the previous 
night, when Walter was at last able to grasp 
the promise of divine forgiveness in Christ. 

“ What shall I do ? How shall I know what 
is right or wrong for me to do ? for I may 
never see you again, Horace,” he had said, and 
his friend had replied, “ It matters little, my 
dear Walter, about human teachers, if, feeling 
you are ignorant and sinful and helpless, you 


108 Walter. 

seek the help and teaching of the Holy Spirit. 
Flee to Christ in every difficulty, in every per- 
plexity, and he will lead you into all truth, and 
you shall know what you should and should 
not do.” 

So while Lucy and her aunt were discussing 
ribbons and laces, and Betty was packing her 
mistress’ box, Walter was seeking that wis- 
dom that cometh down from above, to meet 
the temptations that he knew would assail him 
in the gay circle at Cheltenham. 

Dame Summerlin, however, was too wise 
and too wary to invite Walter or urge Lucy to 
go to dancing or card parties at first. There 
was enough to amuse them in walking on the 
promenade and watching the gay company, or 
sitting in the pump-room, drinking the mineral 
waters and listening to the band. And so the 
first week passed, and not a word had been 
said about Walter or his Methodism, and each 
began to wonder whether the others had for- 
gotten it. Dame Summerlin congratulated 
herself upon the success of her plan, for Wal- 
ter had been willing to accompany them in all 
their walks, and had gone with them to church 
on Sunday, and read a chapter from the Bible 
aloud afterward, as she had suggested, and Mr. 
Wesley’s name had not once been mentioned. 


Will He Yield? 


109 


Lucy, however, did not feel so satisfied and 
confident as her aunt. She knew her brother 
— knew that he had always been fond of having 
his own way in every thing, and she did not like 
this sudden change in him — this giving up, 
as he often did, some little plan of his own, to 
walk with her aunt up and down the prome- 
nade, which, however much as it might amuse 
and interest her, she knew by past experience 
was rather irksome to Walter, and yet he nev- 
er complained. If he would have only grum- 
bled a little, or gone off and left them after a 
little temper had been shown, she could have 
understood it, and would have liked it all the 
better; but now she was puzzled, and Walter’s 
easy compliance with all her aunt wished made 
her cross at last. 

“ Walter, how is it ? I can’t understand you a 
bit now,” she said, one day, after they had been 
at Cheltenham about a week. They had been 
sent to promenade up and down the pavement 
while Dame Summerlin sat and rested near. 
She would not trust them out of sight or hear- 
ing many minutes together, for fear Lucy 
should be drawn into talking about the Meth- 
odists and their ways ; but constant vigilance 
was beginning to weary her now, and she 
thought there could be no harm done in their 


Walter. 


i io 

talking to each other for a few minutes in such 
a public place. There could be no praying or 
preaching here, and so, for the first time dur- 
ing their visit, the brother and sister were left 
to themselves. 

“ What is there about me you cannot under- 
stand ? ” asked Walter, with a pleasant smile. 

“ I don’t know. Tell me this? Do you like 
walking up and down here, looking at the la- 
dies’ brocaded dresses and the gentlemen’s fine 
laced coats?” said Lucy. 

“ I don’t know that I see them — at least I 
don’t notice them much,” said Walter. 

“Then what do you come for?” she de- 
mand. 

“ To please aunt and you,” he replied. 

“ But you don’t please me,” said Lucy, pet- 
ulantly. “ I don’t like your coming with us 
one bit.” 

“ But you have always asked me to come,” 
expostulated Walter. 

“ I know I have, but I didn’t expect you, 
and I didn’t want you,” said Lucy passionate- 
ly. “ I wanted you to say you wouldn’t, or 
something like that — something like you used 
to be ; you are not like yourself ; you are try- 
ing to be a hypocrite and to deceive aunt ; I 
know you are.” 


Will He Yield? 


iii 


“What do you mean, Lucy?” said Wal- 
ter, with a touch of his old temper in the 
tone. 

“Just what I say. I never thought you 
would be deceitful ; but you are — you are de- 
ceiving aunt ; but you can’t deceive me, for I 
know you are only trying to make her believe 
you have forgotten your Methodism, while all 
the time you are thinking of it secretly.” 

For a moment Walter had to battle with his 
rising anger before answering this unjust 
speech ; but at last he managed to say, quiet- 
ly, “ You and aunt would not like me to think 
aloud about Methodism, Lucy. I want to 
talk to you about some things, but I never 
get the chance of speaking to you now.” 

“You want to make me a mean, canting 
Methodist, like Walter Golding.” 

“Hush, hush, Lucy, do not talk so loud; 
that gentleman in the sky-blue laced coat 
heard you, I am sure. See, he is stepping 
back to us.” 

The gentleman stood in front of them and 
raised his gold-laced hat. “ Let me give you 
a word of warning, my dear young lady. A 
party of Methodists have just arrived in the 
city ; beware of being drawn into listening to 
them, even out of curiosity, for it would be a 


1 1 2 


Walter. 


shame to see such a fine young creature as you 
drawn into their clutches.” 

“ Thank you, sir ; but I am able to take care 
of my sister ; and we are not without friends 
in the city to judge what is fit and proper for 
us,” said Walter, a little sharply. “ Have you 
ever seen that man before, Lucy?” he said, 
turning to his sister, as the dandy replaced his 
hat upon his powdered wig and walked on. 

Lucy laughed. “ Now you are like your 
old self, Walter,” she said ; “ but you need not 
ruffle your feathers like an angry old hen be- 
cause I was spoken to.” 

“ What business had the man to speak to 
you ? Do you know him ?” 

“ Yes, and so ought you. Why, where have 
your eyes been, Walter? What could you 
have been thinking of, not to recognize the 
master of the ceremonies? Why, he has often 
spoken to aunt in the pump room ; he knows 
her quite well.” 

Walter looked rather less angry, but still 
not quite satisfied, as he said : “ What right 
had he to interfere with us while we were 
talking? ” 

“ Did you know the Methodists were com- 
ing here ? ” demanded Lucy. 

“ Don’t speak like that, Lucy. I have no 


Will He Yield? 


ii3 

doubt there are hundreds of Methodists always 
living here — quiet, noble Christian men and 
women ; doing God’s work in their houses 
and their business; working honestly and tru- 
ly, and all the better for being Methodists. 
What that man means is, that some of Mr. 
Wesley’s preachers are coming to speak, and 
if they do, I should like you to go and hear 
them,” avowed Walter. 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself to 
say such a thing — to think of going yourself 
or of asking me to go, when you know aunt 
brought us here on purpose that you might 
forget all about that nonsense, and she thinks 
you have ; but I was not to be deceived with 
your quiet, hypocritical ways.” 

“ Lucy, you don’t know what you are say- 
ing. I have not tried to deceive you, or my 
aunt either : I have simply tried to please you 
by doing as you wished. It could not be much 
pleasure to me to saunter up and down here 
day after day, and, as to forgetting, why I have 
nothing else to do but think of what I heard 
from Horace and his friends, or what I have 
read in the book of hymns, written by Mr. 
Charles Wesley, which he gave to me the 
evening he came to see me.” 

“ I knew you were not forgetting. Poor 


Walter. 


114 

aunt, how disappointed she will be ! I think 
you ought to tell her, Walter.” 

There was no need to do this, for when they 
walked back to the seat where she was sitting, 
she said, “ Now, young people, I have a treat 
in store for you. Lady Dashwood is here, and 
has invited you to her dancing party next 
week, and, of course, you must both go.” 

“ I cannot, aunt,” said Walter, firmly. “ I 
told you before we came I would not do this.’* 

•‘And why not, pray ? ” demanded the lady. 
“ Where is the difference between walking here, 
and stepping through a minuet in a room? 
The same company are with you, or some of 
the same.” 

“ No, aunt, it is not the same, and I cannot 
and will not go,” repeated Walter ; and neither 
his aunt’s or his sister’s persuasions could move 
him. 


A Morning Sermon . 


"5 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A MORNING SERMON. 

HE King and Court arrived at Chelten- 



ham, and Lucy was both gratified and 
disappointed by having a close view of his 
majesty, King George II. He was a little 
old man, pinched in face, and miserable-look- 
ing in spite of his kingly surroundings, which 
only made the contrast the more striking. 

“ My father in his working clothes looks 
much more of a king than the King himself,” 
whispered Lucy, as the royal party passed 
them. 

“ Hush, hush, my dear!” said Dame Sum- 
merlin, reprovingly ; for to her mind such a 
speech savored of Jacobite and Methodist 
tendencies, if not of actual treason, l'he King 
is the King, you know, and no common man 
like your father can be compared with him,” 
added the old lady. 

“ But my father is not a common man,” 
said Lucy, indignantly; “ and I don’t see why 
I ought to think the King better than he.” 

She wished Walter had been with them, but 


8 


ii6 


Walter. 


since Walter had refused to join the dancing 
and card-playing parties, he had been left to 
do very much as he pleased ; Dame Summer- 
lin’s chief care now being to keep him away 
from Lucy as much as possible. A letter had 
arrived from Mr. Maxwell, and he might be 
expected at Cheltenham any day now, but 
they were rather surprised to meet him on the 
promenade a few minutes after the King had 
passed. 

“Where is Walter?” he asked, almost be- 
fore the first greeting was over ; and then 
hastened to add, “ I suppose it is needless to 
ask, as I hear Mr. Wesley is to preach here to- 
day.” 

“ Wesley here ! ” repeated Dame Summer- 
lin ; “ I never heard of it.” 

“ Did not Walter tell you ? He knew it, I 
suppose, if he is a Methodist.” 

“ If he is a Methodist ! Do you doubt my 
word, John Maxwell? or do you care so little 
for the honor and welfare of your family that 
it is a matter of no importance to you ? ” 

“ A matter of no importance, Euphrasia ? 
Do you think I should have left home at this 
time if I had not been most anxious to save 
the boy from this mad fanaticism ? ” 

“ How are mother and Mary ? ” asked Lucy. 


A Morning Sermon. ny 

“ Better, my dear. Mary is almost well 
again ; but your mother does not mend so 
fast.” 

“ And uncle, how is he ? ” asked Lucy, who 
really felt as anxious about her uncle as about 
her mother and sister, but had tried to comfort 
herself during this long silence by the thought 
that if either of them had died they would 
have received a letter telling them of it. 

“ He is getting better, too, but not so fast 
as the doctor would like. Now tell me about 
Walter. What is this about hi#turning Meth- 
odist ? ” said Mr. Maxwell, in a lower tone, to 
Lucy ; for Dame Summerlin chose to consider 
herself very much insulted, and had walked on 
alone. 

“ He met Horace Golding and some more 
Methodists who were preaching, and came 
home crying out that he was lost. We thought 
that he was ill at first, and sent for the doctor ; 
but somehow he contrived to get Horace into 
his room that night, and the next morning he 
was singing Methodist hymns.” 

“ And how has he behaved since he has 
been here ? ” asked her father. 

“ He wont go with us to a dancing or card 
party, and says this is wrong and that is 
wrong, until one hardly knows whether it is 


1 18 


Walter. 


right to eat or drink, or do any thing but 
pray.” 

“ Dear heart ! it is worse than the steam- 
engine craze ; and Bessy’s husband has just sent 
to say he has a capital opening for him in his 
business,” exclaimed Mr. Maxwell, in a tone 
of vexation. 

“ I don’t think Walter will like that, father,” 
said Lucy. 

“ I cannot help that. The business of the 
foundry has fallen off so much of late that it 
will not do for*Walter to think of it. But he 
must give up this nonsense about being a Meth- 
odist, or Mr. Ross will not think him fit for his 
business, for he hates the Methodists as much 
as your Aunt Euphrasia does.” 

“ Don't you hate the Methodists, too, fa- 
ther ? ” 

“ My dear, I don’t pretend to understand 
the matter so well as your Aunt Euphrasia ; 
but I have heard it said that no Methodist can 
ever get on in business, and so, of course, he 
must give it up at once.” 

“ Of course he must,” assented Lucy. “ The 
whole thing is so low and disgraceful, only fit 
for beggars and colliers and that sort of peo- 
ple, that no one who is respectable ever thinks 
of associating with a Methodist.” 


A Morning Sermon. 1 19 

This was the verdict of the pump-room, 
where Dame Summerlin had been carefully 
gauging public opinion lately upon this impor- 
tant matter, but at the same time carefully 
concealing the fact that any relative of hers 
was at all likely to become a follower of Mr. 
Wesley. 

4< I am very sorry I ever brought you to 
Gloucester,” said Mr. Maxwell, after a pause. 
“ The fever has not been much worse than 
usual this year, and these long journeys do not 
suit me.” 

Lucy looked up at her father as he spoke, 
and noticed how pale and worn he seemed to 
be. “ You are not well, father,” she said, in a 
little alarm. 

“ Yes, I am well enough, but these long 
journeys don’t suit an old man, and I feel 
anxious about Walter. What time will he be 
home ? I suppose he has gone to see some of 
these Methodists.” 

“ Perhaps he has. Aunt has let him do as 
he likes lately, and so, of course, he would run 
after them.” But while she was speaking Wal- 
ter was close at hand, and the next moment 
stood before them. 

“ I am so glad you have come, father,” said 
Walter heartily, holding out his hand. “ How 


120 


Walter. 


are mother and Mary and uncle ? Have you 
come to take us home ? ” 

“ I am going to take you home, my lad, but 
I must talk to your aunt first before we decide 
about Lucy.” 

“ Father, have you heard that Mr. Wesley 
is to preach in the town ? May I go and hear 
him ? ” said Walter eagerly. 

“ I have heard too much about Mr. Wesley 
lately,” said his father, not a little surprised at 
Walter’s request ; for he thought, like Lucy, 
that, being left to do as. he pleased, he would 
have run off to seek some Methodist friends. 
“ Where have you been spending your time, 
sir, that you should hear of Mr. Wesley coming 
here ? ” 

“ I have heard it but just now, on the Long 
Walk. I have taken a book and walked in 
the fields and lanes a good deal of late, since 
Lucy told me she did not want me to walk 
with her.” 

“ And you have not made the acquaintance 
of any low Methodists in the town ? ” ques- 
tioned Mr. Maxwell. 

“ No, father; my aunt forbade me seeking or 
speaking to any I knew to be Methodists till 
you came ; but I trust you will let me go and 
hear Mr. Wesley preach to-morrow morning.” 


A Morning Sermon. 121 

“ To-morrow morning ? ” 

“Yes, father, at six o’clock to-morrow he 
is to preach in the High Oak field. You 
will let me go, father — please, he added, plead- 
ingly. 

“ I will consider it. But mind, Walter, if I 
yield to your wishes in this, I shall expect you 
to yield to me in some other matters.” 

“ I will always yield to you, father, in any 
thing but matters of conscience — and that you 
would not wish, I know,” said Walter. 

Mr. Maxwell said something about obsti- 
nacy being sometimes mistaken for conscien- 
tiousness ; but Dame Summerlin allowed her- 
self to be overtaken at this point, and the con- 
versation soon became general, nothing more 
being said about Walter or his delinquencies 
until they had reached home and Walter had 
gone up to his room. Then Mr. Maxwell took 
the opportunity of telling his sister that her 
commands had been obeyed by Walter, and 
that he had not ventured even to go and hear 
Mr. Wesley himself without asking his permis- 
sion first. 

“ That’s just one of their Methodist tricks,” 
said Dame Summerlin crossly; “ but you will 
see he can be as disobedient and obstinate in 
some things 3$ the rest of thejn. I should nof 


122 


Walter. 


think you would let him go to hear this ser- 
mon to-morrow morning.” 

“ Well, I don’t know, Euphrasia. It will not 
do to draw the reins too tight, or a young 
colt may prove restive where we would fain 
have him go easily ; and so for this matter I 
am inclined to yield to the lad, to say nothing 
of a little curiosity I feel myself to see and 
hear this Mr. Wesley. I have heard White- 
field, and ’twill be something to say I have 
heard the two greatest preachers of the times.” 

“ John Maxwell, I am surprised at your talk- 
ing of these Dissenters as the greatest preach- 
ers of the times. One would think we had no 
godly bishops and learned clergymen in the 
Church, that you must run after these. I have 
heard my husband say that Whitefield and 
Wesley taught no more than the poorest curate 
could do when he read the Church service, 
if people would only try to understand what 
they were taught.” 

“ Perhaps not, Euphrasia, perhaps not ; but 
you cannot deny that your poor curate would 
not get a thousand people to listen to his read- 
ing of the Church service, but they will gladly 
go miles to hear one of Mr. Wesley’s sermons. 
Now, suppose we take a coach and all go to- 
morrow morning together. It will be — ” 


A Morning Sermon. 


123 


“ John Maxwell, are you mad ? or do you 
think I am ? ” said his sister indignantly, ris- 
ing from her seat and standing before him. 

“ Well, well, Euphrasia, I am a little curious 
about this Mr. Wesley,” said her brother. 

“ Curious ? I should think for your chil- 
dren’s sake, then, you might restrain the cu- 
riosity. Would you take them to see a case 
of plague or deadly fever because you were 
curious about it ? I have carefully guarded 
Lucy since she has been with me, and taught 
her the ways and manners of fashionable socie- 
ty, but I might as well have left it alone if she 
is to turn Methodist, like Walter.” 

“ Nonsense, Euphrasia. They are neither 
of them going to be Methodist, and that is 
why I mean to let Walter go and hear Mr. 
Wesley to-morrow — to convince him that I am 
not afraid of his being taken with all their 
mad nonsense.” 

“ Very well. Do as you please. Only don’t 
say I have not warned you. I only wish I 
was a clergyman myself,” added the old lady. 
“ I would let John Wesley see that others 
could preach the Gospel in a church as well 
as he does out of it.” 

“ Ah, Euphrasia, if our clergy are wise they 
will carry out your wishes in this direction.” 


124 


Walter. 


“ And I will urge them to do it, too. I 
confess the Church has not done all it might, 
but this schism of Wesley’s is shameful, and 
that my nephew should follow him is dis- 
graceful.” 

Mr. Maxwell saw it would be useless to 
continue the discussion, and that his sister 
would be seriously offended if he went to hear 
Mr. Wesley preach the following morning. 
So he contented himself with giving Walter 
permission to go, at the same time warning 
him that he was not to consider himself a 
Methodist or join the Society. 

In spite of the early hour fixed on for Mr. 
Wesley’s sermons, hundreds of people had as- 
sembled in the field long before Walter got 
there, and little companies of Methodists had 
gathered close to the stand, which was placed 
near the oak from which the field took its 
name. One or two of these recognized Walter 
as the friend of Horace Golding, and at once 
spoke to him, and invited him to join with 
them in leading the singing. Walter was 
greatly pleased with the kind sympathy shown 
by these unknown friends, and before he was 
aware of it had told them something of the 
difficulty of his position. 

“ Be steadfast, my young brother,” said an 


A Morning Sermon . 125 

elderly man. “ I have passed through many 
troubles, but the Lord has never forsaken me 
yet, and there is the same grace for you as 
for me. If it be possible, join yourself to one 
of our bands; ” and the man, who was himself 
a class-leader, told Walter of the system of 
classes and their weekly meetings introduced 
by Mr. Wesley, and how every member sub- 
scribed a penny a week for the building and 
maintaining of meeting-houses, for prayer- 
meetings, class-meetings, and preaching when 
the weather would not admit of outdoor 
preaching, and how the weekly class enabled 
Christian brethren to help each other tempo- 
rarily and spiritually. 

Of course, Walter was eager to join one of 
these bands, but remembering his father’s 
commands, and also that he would soon be 
leaving Cheltenham, he knew it would be im- 
possible ; but he promised to join the Society 
if ever he should be placed where he could do 
so, and gladly joined in the impromptu prayer- 
meeting that was engaged in while waiting the 
arrival of Mr. Wesley. 

He was punctual to the hour named, step- 
ping up to the stand as the distant clocks 
struck six.* The sight of his face, well known 
* See Frontispiece. 


26 


Walter. 


to many in that mixed audience, was the sig- 
nal for the hushing of all discordant sounds, 
and Walter and many another looked up with 
reverent awe to the grave, earnest face of this 
king of men, who swayed the hearts of thou- 
sands, and subdued into gentle teachableness 
some of the vilest and roughest men. He was 
some ten years older than his friend Whitefield, 
graver, too, though more earnest it was impos- 
sible to be. For a minute Walter felt disap- 
pointed, for in some externals Whitfield had 
the advantage of Wesley. But when the sing- 
ing was over, and the text read and the sermon 
fairly begun, Walter forgot every thing but the 
message of life that was being delivered. 

Toward the close of the sermon, knowing 
that there were many Christian souls who 
needed feeding as well as those who needed 
awakening, Mr. Wesley spoke to these on the 
duty and privilege of prayer : “ If those who 
have known the grace of God,” he said, “ do 
not continually watch unto prayer, the evil 
root of sin will have more influence on them 
than the good seed of grace. God in his ex- 
cellent wisdom raises in us good thoughts, and 
then inspires us with prayer to ask of him 
those graces which he is resolved to give when 
we ask with a full submission to his will. 


A Morning Sermon. 1 27 

Therefore, in order to know if we shall obtain 
what we ask, we have only to consider — do we 
seek merely our own pleasure or the grace of 
God in our prayers ? If this only, we shall 
have the petitions we ask of him. On every 
occasion of uneasiness we should retire to 
prayer, that we may give place to the grace 
and light of God, and then form our resolu- 
tions without being in any pain about the 
success they may have.” 

This counsel, so needful to many, was spe- 
cially welcome to Walter, who knew not yet 
what his father intended to do with him be- 
yond taking him home. This was rather grat- 
ifying than otherwise to Walter ; for his stay 
at Cheltenham had not been so pleasant that 
he should wish to prolong it, and he was not 
sorry to hear, later in the day, that they were 
to commence their return journey the follow- 
ing morning. 

Whitemead came in their way, and was one 
stage short of home ; so they went to spend 
an hour or two with the parson while their 
horses were resting. 

“So you have well-nigh become a Methodist, 
my lad, and frightened your Aunt Euphrasia 
out of her wits. Well, well, it is all of a piece 
with Mistress Lucy’s notions about freeing 


128 


Walter. 


the slaves and your own about steam-engines. 
The world is going too fast for an old man like 
me. But when is Lucy coming to hear the 
sermon I promised to preach to her? Has she 
turned Methodist, too?” 

Her father laughed. “Lucy is too fond of 
dancing and card playing to turn Methodist,” 
he said. “ Euphrasia is making quite a fash- 
ionable lady of her.” 

“Worse and worse. I don’t like fashionable 
ladies, and you ought to have brought Lucy 
home if Euphrasia can do no more than that 
for her,” grumbled her uncle. “ When is she 
coming back?” he asked. 

“ Mary is to pay her aunt a visit in the 
winter, and then take Lucy to Bath for the 
season ; so we shall not see her yet.” 

“ I suppose not. She will be spoiled before 
we see her again; for I know more of the 
quality and their ways than you do, John. 
What are you going to do with Walter?” 

“ Archie Ross, Bessie’s husband, has offered 
to take him and teach him the business of a 
merchant, and we cannot do better than ac- 
cept it.” 

“I suppose not. What do you say, Walter?” 

“ I don’t like it at all, uncle. I would rather 
stick to the old foundry, poor as it is. I have 


A Morning Sermon . 129 

been talking to my father about it as he came 
along ; but he cannot see things as I do.” 

“ No, it would be folly to stick to a sinking 
ship. The foundry may last my time. I shall 
make it last for the sake of the men who have 
worked in it since they were boys ; but it will 
not do for a young man to tie himself to it. 
He would waste his life, and always be a poor 
man. The others see it now, and so will you 
by and by, and thank me for compelling you 
to give it up.” 

“ Well, and what about the story of your 
being a Methodist, Walter?” asked his uncle. 

“All moonshine,” said his father before Wal- 
ter could reply. “We heard Whitefield preach- 
ing as we went, and that sent Euphrasia al- 
most wild; and because Walter heard another 
of these field sermons from Mr. Wesley she 
concluded at once that Walter must be a 
Methodist.” 

“ So youVe heard Wesley and Whitefield 
both, have you ? and what have they taught 
you r 

“ That we must be born again, uncle,” said 
Walter. 

“ Yes, yes, of course ; the new birth, and the 
influence of the Holy Spirit, and salvation by 
grace — this is what they are always talking 


130 


Walter. 


about ; but we have the same in the Church 
service, and I have been preaching the same 
for years.” 

“ Have you, uncle ? ” said Walter with 
widely opened eyes. “ I have often heard 
you read a sermon, but I never heard you 
preach as Mr. Wesley does.” 

“ Perhaps not, perhaps not; it would not be 
amiss, perhaps, if some of us took a lesson out 
of Wesley’s book, since it seems people like 
such plain speech rather than learning. But 
don’t forget this, Walter: there is no need for 
you to turn Methodist to hear about the influ- 
ence of the Holy Spirit, for when I can go to 
my pulpit again I mean to speak in plainer 
terms to the people about many things ; for 
I see it is time we bestirred ourselves if the 
Church of England is to be saved.” 

And so Mr. Wesley’s work had a ^twofold 
influence. Not only did he found a new 
Church, but he gave to the old, well-nigh effete 
Church of England a fresh impetus, stirring it 
up to renew its strength ; to take up the dis- 
used weapons of its warfare, and renew the 
struggle against “ the world, the flesh, and the 
devil.” 


In London . 


I3i 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN LONDON. 

W ALTER found that the change in his 
principles was quietly ignored by his 
friends, but Mr. Maxwell little knew how 
much Walter’s compliance with his wishes in 
the matter of becoming a merchant depended 
upon the new motives actuating his life. To 
go to London, to be shut up to booking bales 
of goods and adding up accounts, and never 
to have a chance of perfecting his plans for 
driving wheels by steam, was to Walter like 
robbing him of half his life; but he had begun 
to learn that he was not to please himself. 
Mr. Wesley had said in his sermon : “ Chris- 
tianity is summed up in being thoroughly will- 
ing that God should treat us in the manner 
that pleases him. As by becoming Christians 
we are become his lambs, we ought to be 
ready to suffer even to the death without com- 
plaining ; ” and so Walter yielded to his fa- 
ther’s wishes, thinking that God had some work 
for him to do in London to which the work of 
a merchant would be a stepping-stone. 

9 


132 


Walter. 


Before he went away his uncle offered to 
give him the little model of Newcombe’s steam- 
pump, but Walter shook his head. “ It will 
not do to have that if I am to become a mer- 
chant,” he said. “ I should be thinking of 
wheels, and pistons, and cylinders instead of 
figures. Keep it for me, uncle, and if ever I 
can come back to the dear old foundry, I will 
ask you for it.” But what it cost Walter to 
give up his own way like this no one knew, 
and few even guessed, unless it was his uncle. 

A few weeks were spent at home in prepar- 
ing for this launch in life, and then Walter 
went to his new home in London, thinking 
less of how he was to become a successful 
merchant and a wealthy man, than what work 
he could do to forward the kingdom of God ; 
for this was one of the distinctive features of 
Methodism, and made it such a mighty power 
in the world that each one coming under its 
influence learned that he was not to be self- 
ishly concerned in merely saving his own soul, 
but was to follow the example of Andrew, 
who “first findeth his own brother Simon, and 
saith unto him, We have found the Messias, 
which is being interpreted the Christ, and he 
brought him to Jesus.” Already had Walter 
tried to do something by saying a few words 


In London. 


133 


to one or two of his father’s workmen — words 
that had startled the men by their plainness 
and directness, and brought upon himself the 
suspicion his father wished to avoid, although 
this did not reach Mr. Maxwell’s ears until 
after Walter had gone to London, and Horace 
Golding came home full of zeal and earnest- 
ness to plant the good seed in his native place. 

But Walter had been before him he found. 
The grain of mustard seed had been sown in 
the hearts of one or two, and a little prayer- 
meeting had been commenced, in one. of the 
workmen’s cottages — unknown to Mr. Max- 
well, at first ; but when he complained of Hor- 
ace coming among his workpeople, sowing the 
seeds of Methodism, he heard, to his surprise 
and alarm, that it was not Horace, but his own 
son, that had first done this, and one or two, 
who had suddenly become more steady and 
reliable in their work, said it was entirely 
owing to the new ways they had learned from 
the young master. 

Mr. Maxwell grumbled and fumed against 
all new ways ; but he was forced to admit that 
some of the roughest and least reliable of his 
men had now become the steadiest ; and there 
was less quarreling and drunkenness among 
them than ever he had known before. Dame 


134 


Walter. 


Maxwell heard of the men’s changed habits from 
their wives, and saw it very soon in the altered 
look of things in their homes ; for she was able 
to get out again now, and winter always 
brought such distress and trouble to the more 
improvident of her husband’s work-people 
that she was constantly called upon to help, 
and she invariably went on her visits of charity 
as soon as the cold weather set in. But to 
her surprise she found this year that her 
visits, though warmly welcomed by the women, 
who were proud to show the' one or two com- 
forts that had been added to the meager fur- 
nishing of the cottage, were by no means so 
needful, in a pecuniary sense, and that this was 
owing to the men’s changed habits. She 
heard, too, that prayer-meetings and class- 
meetings were taking the place of the ale 
house ; which made Dame Maxwell shake her 
head, but wisely say : “ Methodism cannot be 
such a bad thing for the workmen, then, if it 
helps them to save their money and make their 
homes more comfortable.” Only she was not 
quite so well pleased to think that her son should 
share such benefits as Methodism could be- 
stow. “ It is quite clear to me that this dis- 
sent is intended for poor people, and Mr. Wes- 
ley is quite right to preach to the poor ; but 


In London . 


135 


he should tell such lads as Walter to keep to 
the Church, for it can only make things uncom- 
fortable for them.” 

Religion, according to Dame Maxwell, was 
intended by the kind heavenly Father to make 
people comfortable, by being a sort of salve to 
their conscience, applied once a week, which 
would save them from any trouble or thought 
until the next Sunday came round. It was for 
Sunday only, and to be strictly confined to the 
hours for divine service, except on such special 
occasions as a christening or a funeral ; but its 
ever entering into and influencing the every- 
day life of the individual was a notion so new 
and startling to Dame Maxwell and the ma- 
jority of the people of that day, that it was 
some time before she could quite believe it, 
even though she had the evidence of it in the 
improved condition of a few people she had 
known for years. 

Meanwhile Walter had reached London, and, 
as it seemed to him, was swallowed up in its 
busy life. Gloucester had bewildered him at 
first, with what seemed to be its countless 
numbers of people, always thronging the 
streets ; but in London the multitude seemed 
to overwhelm and appall him, and for the first 
week after his arrival he took care not to go 


136 


Walter. 


nearer the hurrying throngs of people than his 
sister’s windows ; for the Rosses lived in the 
city, although Bessy hoped to have a house at 
Clapham in a few years. 

For the present, however, she had to content 
herself with the house where her husband’s 
business was carried on in the lower premises ; 
and as soon as Walter came she impressed up- 
on him the duty of remembering who he was, 
and not associating with the clerks and ap- 
prentices. “ By and by we shall have a house 
at Clapham,” she said, “ and it will not do to 
have doubtful companions.” 

“ But I should not think Mr. Ross would 
take ‘ doubtful’ people into his business, Bessy,” 
said Walter. “ My father said he was very 
particular.” 

“ So he is ; but there are one or two Meth- 
odists. My husband says they are excellent 
servants, truthful and honest, but a little too 
much inclined to force their notions upon 
other people ; and you being a stranger, and 
rather young, they may try to take some ad- 
vantage of you ; so pray give them no encour- 
agement.” 

Walter felt puzzled to know what to do — 
how he should answer this ; and so he said, 
“ But, Bessy, if these people are truthful and 


hi London. 


137 

honest, why should you be so afraid of my 
making their acquaintance ? ” 

“ You must make their acquaintance a little 
in the way of business, because one of them 
will be with you a great deal ; but you must 
remember these people are clerks — servants — 
and they are never likely to be any thing else; 
therefore it does not matter much what they 
are in the way of religion. They can be 
Methodists if they like; but with you it is 
quite different.” 

“Why is it different, Bessy?” asked her 
brother. 

“ Dear me, what tiresome questions you do 
ask, to be sure ! You have come here to be a 
merchant, and that makes all the difference.” 

“ But why should it ? Why cannot a mer- 
chant be a Methodist?” said Walter. 

“ Because no one ever heard of such a thing. 
A Methodist merchant!” repeated the lady, 
scornfully ; “ why, the Methodists are all poor, 
low, ill-bred creatures, except, perhaps, a few 
of the quality, like my Lady Huntingdon ; and 
they can afford to do any thing.” 

“Why, what did Lady Huntingdon do?” 
asked Walter, with some curiosity. 

“ What I would never do,” said Dame Ross, 
tartly. “ She asked Mr. Whitefield to preach 


138 


Walter. 


at her mansion in Chelsea, and invited my 
Lord Bolingbroke and Lord Chesterfield, and 
many others of the first quality, to hear him, 
and this more than once, as I have heard.” 

“ I am glad,” said Walter, “ for the quality 
have souls to save as well as miners and colliers 
and such poor folks ; only it seems to me they 
are buried deeper under the pleasures and 
riches of this world, and so are the harder to 
get at.” 

“ But Methodism will never be fashionable, 
for all my Lady Huntingdon may do to bring 
Mr. Whitefield to the quality. A few odd 
people among them may turn Methodists, but 
they who follow Mr. Wesley, or Mr. Whitefield 
either, will always be a poor, low-bred set.” 

“And are there no Christian merchants in 
this great city, Bessy? ” 

“ Christian merchants ! what do you mean ? 
Do you think we are all Turks or heathens?” 
exclaimed his sister, in an injured tone. 

“ No, not heathen exactly, but — but, you 
know there is a difference in being a Christian, 
Bessy,” said Walter gently. 

“ Well, I thought we were all Christians ; I 
am, I know, for I was baptized, and have been 
to church as often as it was convenient ; and 
what more can be expected of us I don’t 


In London . 


139 


know.” And the young matron tossed her 
head with an air of defiance, as she sailed out 
of the room, leaving her brother to think over 
what she had said. 

A day or two afterward his brother-in-law 
spoke to him on the same subject. “ I hope 
you have no leaning toward these Methodists, 
Walter,” he said. “ I don’t want you to say 
a word, my lad,” he hastened to add, as Walter 
was about to speak ; “ I wont hear a word, for 
Bessy’s sake; But I tell you that, although 
Methodists make very good servants, they can 
never be masters, and that you will find out if 
ever you are a merchant.” 

“ Then I will never be one,” said Walter, 
impulsively; bat his brother-in-law turned 
away, and would not hear ; neither would he 
see the growing intimacy that soon sprang up 
between him and one or two of the clerks who 
were called Methodists by their companions, 
whether they deserved it or not. 

Walter was likely to prove very useful in the 
business in spite of his dislike to it, and the 
money Mr. Maxwell had agreed to advance 
by and by, as Walter’s share, would be of great 
service in extending it, and so it was most 
convenient to ignore and forget all they had 
heard about his Methodism. 


140 


Walter. 


But the first Sunday convinced them it 
would be impossible to do this entirely, what- 
ever they might wish. “We are going out 
to-morrow, Walter,” said his sister on Satur- 
day morning. “ I wish you had let me see 
your shirts when you first came ; not a bit of 
lace frilling on them ! I do wonder at mother 
sending you like this.” 

“ It was not mother’s fault at all,” said 
Walter. “ I asked her to let me have them 
without frills.” 

“ And your new coat without braid, too ! ” 

“Yes, father said I might do as I liked about 
my coat, and so I saw the tailor myself, and 
ordered it.” 

“ Father ought to have seat it back to the 
man and had another made. Dear heart ! 
only a snuff-colored coat without braiding, and 
not a bit of lace on your shirt ! What will our 
friends think of you, and we are all going to 
Clapham to-morrow ! ” 

“ I cannot go, Bessy,” said Walter. 

“You mean you are ashamed to be seen in 
such mean clothes. Well, I don’t wonder at 
it ; and I’ll take care to alter it next week. I 
have some fine lace that mother gave me when 
I was at hojne that I can make up into frills 
for you, and vou shall go to the tailor’s next 


In London . 


141 

week, and get another coat made, in the newest 
fashion.” 

“ Thank you, Bessy, I don’t want another 
coat,” said Walter, when he could get an op- 
portunity of speaking. “ I like my snuff-col- 
ored coat, and it would be useless to get finer 
clothes to go out with you on Sundays, be- 
cause I would much rather spend the day 
quietly going to church or the Foundry to hear 
some of Mr. Wesley’s preachers.” 

“The Foundry; what do you mean?” said 
Bessy, pretending not to understand her 
brother. 

“ Mr. Wesley has taken an old cannon foun- 
dry somewhere in Moorfields, and uses it for 
a church or meeting-house. Did you not 
know it ?” 

“ I did not know that my brother would 
ever want to go to such a place,” said the 
lady, with extreme disgust. “ You question 
whether we are Christians, and then talk of 
going to a place that has never been conse- 
crated by the Bishop, and so cannot be a fit 
place to worship God. You would better go 
with us to Clapham,” she added, in a milder 
tone. 

“ No, thank you, I cannot*” said Walter, 
firmly. 


142 


Walter. 


“You will find the place dreadfully dull, 
with only old Betty for company.” 

“ I don’t mind that,” replied Walter. 

“ Betty never can cook a dinner properly, 
and there is only cold meat for her.” 

“ There will be enough for me, too, I dare 
say,” laughed Walter. 

“You wont know your way to Moorfields,” 
said his sister, in despair of finding another 
objection. 

“ Dawson is coming for me.” 

“ So you prefer Dawson’s company to ours. 
Walter, I am surprised at you. I never be- 
lieved you would turn Methodist ; but you 
must be, or you would not leave us for these 
Methodists.” 

Bessy shed a few tears and made a great 
display of grief; but Walter, though he tried 
to reason with and comfort his sister, was not 
to be moved from his purpose even by her 
tears. 

“ Dear Bessy, you will see with me one day, 
I hope and pray,” he said .gently, and then he 
left her, as he foresaw another storm of tears 
impending. 

Bessy and her husband both agreed that it 
was very shocking Walter should choose such 
vulgar ways, and be so utterly without am- 


In London. 


143 


bition ; for as time went on he did not alter 
in this particular, and made no secret of his 
preference for his poor Methodist friends and 
their prayer-meetings to the wealthy and gen- 
teel Clapham people, where only the wealthi- 
est of the London merchants had taken up 
their abode — and it was rather an honor to be 
received into one of these magnates’ houses, 
which few treated with contempt. 

Bessy tried coaxing and sneering, and em- 
ployed a good deal of petty persecution to 
turn her brother from his religious profession, 
and it was at this time he experienced the 
help and benefit of the class-meetings ; for he 
had joined a class soon after his first visit to 
the Foundry, and was formally recognized as a 
member of the Society of Methodists. Now, 
these persecutions — very trifling in themselves, 
but very fretting and galling when constantly 
repeated, especially to a high-spirited lad like 
Walter — drove him more and more into the 
society of his new-found friends, and, what 
was of far more importance, nearer to God, 
who alone knew how heavily he was tried and 
tempted sometimes. 

But Walter’s greatest trial at this time was 
his beloved sister, Lucy. He loved her more 
dearly than ever, yet knew she was drifting 


144 


Walter. 


farther and farther away from him and from 
God, and all the noble aspirations of her girl- 
hood. She passed her time in a round of 
visits to Bath, and Gloucester, and Chelten- 
ham, and her sister Mary’s home, but never 
had time to answer Walter’s letters, some- 
times sending a message through Bessy that 
she did not wish to receive any more from 
him, as she often burned them without read- 
ing them. 

But if he could not write he could still pray 
for her, and many an hour was spent in ago- 
nizing prayers and tears for the conversion 
of this dear sister. He prayed for all his 
family, especially his father and mother, who 
were often ailing now; but Lucy — his dear 
companion and confidante — she was never for- 
gotten. Her name was constantly remem- 
bered at the throne of grace ; and even the 
things she had cared for in those old, happy 
days became sacred to Walter for her sake. 

The dream and longing she had indulged of 
the slave-trade being stopped, Walter prayed 
for that, although he had little hope of ever 
seeing it realized ; but still it was something 
Lucy would have prayed for and labored for 
if she had been a Christian he felt sure, and 
so, as it would have been hers it became his. 


In London . 


145 


Then there was his friend Robert Raikes’ 
plans for bettering the condition of prisoners, 
and teaching poor children to read on Sun- 
days. Walter could not do much toward fur- 
thering these objects, but he could pray; and 
he did, and the harvest of these prayers came 
one day, although it seemed to Walter at this 
time that he was but an unprofitable servant ; 
for in the active work of Methodism he could 
do little or nothing, his brother-in-law peremp- 
torily forbidding him to take any part in the 
work that so many others could engage in for 
the spread of the Gospel. He might go to 
the Foundry once on Sunday, and attend one 
meeting during the week, but nothing beyond 
this would Mr. Ross allow ; for he hoped by 
this means to wean Walter from Methodism, 
little knowing how deeply it had taken root 
in his heart. 


146 


Walter. 


CHAPTER X. 

A STRANGE SCENE. 

OUNG Dame Ross had accused Walter 



A of being without ambition, because he 
so persistently declined to join in her amuse- 
ments and pleasure-parties ; but the fact was, 
she knew no more of her brother’s aspira- 
tions and desires than she did of the greatest 
stranger, and if she had known, would cer- 
tainly have failed to understand them. To 
be a wealthy and successful merchant seemed 
to Walter the poorest destiny possible for 
him. He had given up his love of mechanics 
to please his father, but another desire had 
taken its place now, and that was to become 
one of Mr. Wesley’s “ helpers,” or lay preach- 
ers, and that was not so easy of accomplish- 
ment as Walter first thought. He had made 
inquiry about this, after he had been a year 
or two in London, but found he was by no 
means qualified ; for helpers were not admit- 
ted indiscriminately — gifts as well as grace for 
the work were required. 

An aspirant for this important work was first 


47 


A Strange Scene . 

examined concerning his theological knowl- 
edge, that it might be seen whether his opin- 
ions were sound. He was then to preach 
before Mr. Wesley, and afterward to give his 
reasons for thinking that he was called of God 
to the ministry. The best proof of this was, 
that some persons should have been convinced 
of sin and converted by his preaching. Then 
there were twelve rules to be strictly observed 
by the helpers, which Walter often pondered 
over, and made the rule of his life even now, 
as far as he could : 

“ I. Be diligent. Never be unemployed : nev- 
er be triflingly employed. Never trifle away 
time ; neither spend any more time at any place 
than is strictly necessary. 

“ II. Be serious. Let your motto be, ‘ Ho- 
liness to the Lord.’ Avoid all lightness, jest- 
ing, and foolish talking. 

“HI. Converse sparingly, and conduct your- 
self prudently with women, (i Tim. v, 2.) 

“ IV. Take no step toward marriage with- 
out first advising with your brethren. 

“ V. Believe evil of no one without good ev- 
idence ; unless you see it done take heed how 
you credit it. Put the best construction on 
every thing. You know the judge is always 
supposed to be on the prisoner’s side. 

10 


148 


Walter. 


“VI. Speak evil of no one; because your 
word especially would eat as doth a canker. 
Keep your thoughts within your own breast 
till you come to the person concerned. 

“VII. Tell every one under your care what 
you think wrong in his conduct and temper, 
and that lovingly and plainly, and as soon as 
maybe: else it will fester in your heart. Make 
all haste to cast the fire out of your bosom. 

“ VIII. Avoid all affectation. A preacher 
of the Gospel is the servant of all. 

“ IX. Be ashamed of nothing but sin ; not 
of fetching wood, (if time permit,) or drawing 
water; not of cleaning your own shoes, or your 
neighbor’s. 

“X. Be punctual. Do every thing exactly 
at the time. And do not mend our rules, but 
keep them ; not for wrath, but conscience’ sake. 

“XI. You have nothing to do but to save 
souls, therefore spend and be spent in this 
work ; and go always not only to those that 
want you, but to those that want you most. 

“XII. Act in all things, not according to 
your own will, but as a son in the Gospel. As 
such it is your duty to employ your time in the 
manner in which we direct : in preaching, and 
visiting from house to house ; in reading, medi- 
tation, and prayer. Above all, if you labor with 


149 


A Strange Scene. 

us in the Lord’s vineyard, it is needful you 
should do that part of the work which we ad- 
vise, at those times and places which we judge 
most for his glory.” 

These twelve rules were written out and 
hung up in his own bedroom, and for some 
time escaped his sister’s notice ; but she saw 
them at last, and also the books he spent some 
hours of each night in reading — theological 
books — some of which he had bought and 
some that had been lent to him ; and this was 
the first intimation his family had of his inten- 
tion to become a preacher. 

Dame Ross was in a fury of indignation the 
moment she understood it, and unfortunately 
Walter happened to go up stairs when she was 
tearing up his treasured “ rules.” 

“ So that is what you mean, is it ? to be the 
servant of all, to fetch wood and carry water 
and clean your own boots, and Wesley’s too, 
I suppose ? Walter, I am ashamed of you. 
None has disgraced us so much as you have, 
and now you mean to drag us still lower.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Walter, look- 
ing at the scattered bits of paper on the floor, 
and the books that lay open on the table. 

“You know what I mean, well enough,” 
said Bessy ; “ you are breaking my heart, and 


Walter. 


150 

mother’s too ; ” and Dame Ross took refuge 
in tears. 

Walter was somewhat used to these passion- 
ate outbursts from his sister by this time, and 
took little notice of it ; but he soon found that 
it was not to be passed over as others had been. 

“ I shall send for father now, Walter. This 
cannot go on any longer; for if you are de- 
termined to be one of Wesley’s servants you 
must leave this house at once. Archie says 
you will never make a successful merchant, and 
my father ought to know it is your own fault.” 

“ I cannot be dishonest. 1 * There are some 
things done — Archie says they must be done; 

I never knew of them until a day or two ago, 
or I would not have stayed here as long as I 
have ; for I cannot, and will not, be a party to 
what is so plainly dishonest.” 

“ What ! you dare to say my husband is 
dishonest ? ” exclaimed Bessy, firing up again. 

“ What do you know about business and the 
ways of the world, and how dare you set your- 
self up as a judge of what he ought or ought 
not to do? But there, it is quite like the 
canting Methodists ; thinking themselves bet- 
ter than their neighbors, and setting them-- 
selves up as wiser than every body else ! ” 

“ I do not set myself above every body else, 


A Strange Scene. 15 1 

or attempt to judge your husband, Bessy; I 
only judge for myself, that I cannot be a mer- 
chant like Archie without constantly sinning 
against God, and I would rather be a beggar 
than a merchant, under those conditions.” 

“A beggar you are most likely to be, and 
the sooner my father knows it the better; but 
his disappointment is nothing to you, I dare 
say, so long as you can keep to Mr. Wesley.” 

Having delivered this parting shot, his sisrer . 
went down stairs, leaving Walter in as unhap- 
py a state of mind as it was possible to be ; 
for just now Walter was drifting away from 
Mr. Wesley, and all his own old friends, 
through the theological dispute that had arisen 
between him and Whitefield years before up- 
on the doctrine of election. These good men 
had each looked at this much-vexed question 
from opposite stand-points, and were so confi- 
dent, each of his own interpretation of Script- 
ure, that neither could admit that the other 
had grasped a portion of the truth, but each 
earnestly denounced the contrary view as de- 
structive error; Wesley repudiating the Cal- 
vinistic views of Whitefield, and Whitefield 
entirely rejecting the Arminianism of Wesley. 
Into this vortex of theological arguments and 
pleadings Walter had plunged, and, with a 


152 


Walter. 


fairness not often to be found in those days, he 
had begun to read and consider the views held 
by Mr. Whitefield, and the section of Method- 
ists following him and now just beginning to be 
known as “The Countess of Huntingdon’s 
Connection.” This lady had fully adopted 
Whitefield’s views, and during his frequent ab- 
sences in America had forwarded his plans by 
gathering around her some of the clergy who 
were like-minded with herself, and willing to 
preach in the chapels she built. Their largest 
place of worship was the Tabernacle, on Tot- 
tenham Court Road, and Walter had been 
there several times, instead of going to the 
Foundry, although he felt almost ashamed to 
turn his back upon his friends, and very sorry 
that he could not see with them upon this 
much-disputed point. 

Perhaps there was something in the circum- 
stance of Whitefield’s being chosen from such 
an unlikely position in life to account for his 
view of this doctrine of election, and the same 
thing might unconsciously influence Walter; 
for he could not but reflect upon the divine 
Love making itself known to him, when he and 
Lucy both shared in the opportunity of em- 
bracing it ; only here Walter was not quite 
consistent in his Calvinism, for he could not 


153 


A Strange Scene. 

endure the thought that God had loved him 
and chosen him out of his family, and in pref- 
erence to his sister, altogether rejecting her. 

No, no ; he could not give up hope for Lucy. 
He must believe that she, too, was one of God’s 
elect, only the time of her calling had not yet 
arrived. Meanwhile he would pray for her 
and for all he loved. Blessed inconsistency! 
And how many who call themselves rigid Cal- 
vinists will argue for it to the bitter, cruel end, 
until, all unconsciously, they make the God 
who is love appear as a tyrannical monster, 
and all human effort for the salvation of souls 
as a blind beating upon adamantine walls; for 
this is the only natural conclusion to be drawn 
from this doctrine pushed to the extreme to 
which many do push it ; and yet, blessed be 
God, who has given us hearts stronger than 
creeds ! these same people, with an inconsist- 
ency worthy of Whitefield, will labor and pray 
for the salvation of souls with as much fervor 
as Wesley, who, with as strong a grip, held the 
reverse side of the shield: “Work out your 
own salvation with fear and trembling,” and 
spent his life in arousing men to engage in this 
“ work.” 

Walter was still in this uncomfortable state 
of drifting away from his old moorings, as laid 


54 


Walter. 


down by Mr. Wesley and the Conference, and 
as yet unknown to any one at Lady Hunting- 
don’s church, when his sister discovered the 
“ rules ” hanging in his bedroom, which brought 
about such a storm of indignation, and ended 
in her writing to her father that it was hopeless 
to think of Walter’s becoming a merchant, as 
he was a stanch Methodist, and refused to do 
many things necessary in the way of business. 

Walter did not know that his father was 
likely to come to London so soon, although 
Bessy had threatened it ; and he had gone with 
some friends to Wandsworth where Mr. Wes- 
ley was to baptize some negroes, the property 
of a Mr. Gilbert, who was himself a Methodist 
West India planter, and Speaker of the House 
of Assembly at Antigua. That negroes had 
souls to save was a thought that had not 
crossed many minds, and the novel spectacle 
of slaves being admitted into the brotherhood 
of the Christian Church had drawn a large 
number to Wandsworth, and doubtless awoke 
in many thoughts that had never before visit- 
ed them. It certainly did in Walter. He 
walked home, thinking of the strange sight he 
had witnessed, and wishing some one could go 
and tell these poor people the gospel message 
simply and plainly, as Mr. Wesley and Mr. 


55 


A Strange Sce?ie. i 

Whitefield were proclaiming it through the 
length and breadth of England. There were 
the plantations in America, as well as the 
West Indies, where people would, doubtless, 
gladly welcome the Gospel message that so 
many despised here. Mr. Wesley had been to 
Georgia soon after his ordination, and Mr. 
Whitefield had spent a good deal of time there 
since ; but he knew something of the extent 
of the American plantations, as they were 
called, and how utterly impossible it was for 
one man to reach the thousands of souls who 
must be living, in ignorance and sin in those 
wide regions. They had some form of relig- 
ion he supposed, for he had heard of the sail- 
ing of the “ May-flower,” and the settlement 
of New England being peopled by Dissenters 
who refused to give up their religious convic- 
tions at the bidding of the King; but in En- 
gland these Independents, who had struggled 
so bravely for religious liberty a century be- 
fore, had either been crushed out of existence, 
or had fallen into well-nigh as deep a sleep as 
the Established Church. Doubtless it was the 
same in America, and, therefore, Methodists 
ought to go there and rouse them from their 
death-sleep, as Mr. Wesley had done in En- 
gland and Ireland. 


Walter. 


i 5 6 

So Walter thought and reasoned as he 
walked slowly home from Wandsworth that 
cold winter afternoon. Before the city was 
reached he had made up his mind what it was 
his duty to do. If he could not preach to a 
critical English audience, he could at least 
teach some of his more ignorant countrymen 
in the plantations of America ; for he had 
heard the description of the Southern States 
given by a Bishop of the English Church, which 
forcibly recurred to his mind now. “ The first 
European inhabitants,” he said, “ carried but 
little sense of Christianity abroad with them. 
A great part of the rest suffered it to wear out 
gradually, and their children grew, of course, 
to have yet less than they, till in some States 
there were scarce any footprints of it left be- 
yond the mere name. No teacher was known; 
no religious assembly was held ; baptism not 
administered for near twenty years together, 
nor the Lord’s Supper for nearly sixty, among 
many thousands of people who did not deny 
the obligation of these duties, but lived, never- 
theless, in a stupid neglect of them.” Walter 
thought of this gloomy picture, and resolved 
to go as a teacher among these people, even 
if he should have to bind himself to serve as a 
slave to pay his passage out, though he hoped 


57 


A Strange Scene. i 

it would not come to this ; for surely Mr. 
Wesley or Mr. Whitefield would send him, if 
he once made his desire known. 

By the time Fleet-street was reached the 
linkboys were running about with their light- 
ed torches, and Walter barely escaped getting 
into trouble with one of them and Dr. John- 
son, who was turning out of Bolt Court for a 
walk in his well-beloved Fleet-street. Walter 
unintentionally pushed a linkboy out of his 
way, and well-nigh set fire to the doctor’s wig. 
A few oaths were hurled at him by both the 
aggrieved parties, and then the linkboy hur- 
ried on after his employer’s chair, and Walter 
stopped to apologize to the crusty old doctor 
for the misadventure ; for he knew him by 
sight, as most people did who knew any thing 
of London at all. 

“ Well, well, young man, I suppose I must 
believe you are sorry if you say so, but I hope 
you will be more cautious in future; and if you 
will lend me your arm across the road between 
this crowd of coaches and chairs I think we 
may cry quits.” 

Walter was quite willing to do this, and 
carefully piloted the learned man through the 
crowd so as to avoid the poles carried by the 
chairmen and the flaring links carried by the 


153 


Walter. 


boys running at the side, which made such a 
scene of confusion that might well make a 
man who had recently been as ill as the doc- 
tor had feel somewhat nervous. 

Walter hurried home after his adventure, 
glad to have something he could relate to his 
sister that would interest her; for he never 
dare mention any thing connected with Mr. 
Wesley or the chapel, so that he felt pleased 
at his meeting with Dr. Johnson. 

But to his surprise he found that his sister 
Mary had arrived at Cheapside during his ab- 
sence, and a glance at the faces of his two 
sisters told him that something unusual had 
happened. 

“What is the matter, Mary?” he asked, as 
he returned her cool greeting. 

“A good deal, I hear. I have come to find 
out what it all means ; for mother is nearly 
heart-broken over it. Bessy says you will 
not try to be a merchant, but would rather be 
a beggar, or black other people’s boots. For 
my part, I should just let you walk out into 
the street, and do it without any more ado ; 
but I have promised mother and father I 
would try once more to bring you to your 
senses, though I think there is less chance of 
it succeeding now than if it had been tried 


159 


A Strange Scene . 

four or five years ago, when you first took up 
these Methodist notions. But now there is 
but one course open to you ; either give up all 
this mad fanaticism, or give up your family; 
for you cannot keep both.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Walter. “ Do 
you think I am such a boy as I was when you 
burned my models? Let me remind you that 
that happened five years ago, and I am a man 
now, and not to be browbeaten by you, al- 
though you are my elder sister.” 

The two ladies were so evidently taken 
aback by Walter’s spirited reply that both 
were at a loss for an answer, until Bessy said, 
“ Now, Walter, be reasonable, and take Mary’s 
advice, though you wont take mine.” 

“ 1 cannot take any advice that would rob 
me of eternal life,” replied Walter. “ I have 
been reasonable, as you are pleased to call it, 
and wherever I could I have conformed to 
your wishes, Bessy ; for you have so far treated 
me reasonably as not to demand that I should 
give up my religious convictions, although you 
did not share them.” 

“ You have been allowed to do too much as 
you like all your life,” interrupted his elder 
sister, her temper now fairly roused at the 
failure of her scheme, which she had felt sure 


160 Walter. 

would succeed, and which she was determined 
at least should be carried out. “You have set 
every body at defiance, and trampled upon the 
wishes of your mother and father, until you 
think every body is to bow to your will. No 
Maxwell ever did such a thing before, and you 
must not, for the family name and the family 
honor is at stake in this matter; and if you 
will not give up the religion that is only fit for 
the lowest rabble, you must cease to be one 
of us from this very hour. I give you ten 
minutes to choose.” 

“What do you mean?” gasped Walter. 

“ I speak plainly enough. You leave this 
house to-night, or give a written promise to 
your father never again to see or hold any 
communication with Wesley or any of his 
Methodists — that you cease to be a Methodist 
from to-night.” 

“Where is my father?” said Walter; “you 
have no right to dictate such terms to me.” 

“ I am acting by your father’s wish. He is 
in this house now, but declines to see you 
until you are prepared to give the promise I 
require.” 

“ I cannot do it,” said Walter, with a groan 
of anguish. “ O Bessy, you know I have 
yielded in almost every thing, except in mat- 


A Strange Scene. 1 6 1 

ters of conscience. Do go and ask my father 
to let me see him at least once more,” pleaded 
Walter; and Bessy was so far touched that 
she would have yielded, and, knowing her 
father had with difficulty been persuaded to 
let Mary carry out her own plans, would have 
taken Walter at once to him. 

But Mary speedily interposed : “ I alone am 
to settle this matter,” she said, “and I give 
you ten minutes to decide. You understand 
me? You leave this house at once, and never 
seek to hold any communication with your 
family again.” 

“Do you indorse this, Bessy?” asked Walter. 

“I must; I have no choice,” replied Bessy. 


Walter. 


162 


CHAPTER XI. 

HOMELESS. 

ALTER was in the street under the 



V V midnight sky, homeless and almost 
penniless. He stood gazing at the lighted 
windows of his sister’s home, wondering why 
his father had refused to see him. He had 
not pleaded again with either of his sisters, 
for he knew it would be useless ; but O ! if he 
could only have pleaded with his father, he 
felt sure this cruel edict would not have been 
carried out. 

How long he stood staring blankly at the 
window he did not know ; but presently it be- 
gan to rain, which first forced upon his mind 
the necessity of getting some shelter for the 
night; for it was bitterly cold, and Walter had 
stood until his limbs were benumbed as well as 
his senses. The blow had fallen so suddenly 
that it had stunned him for the time. But 
as the rain fell sharp and cold upon his face a 
word of precious comfort came to strengthen 
his soul in this hour of trial : “ When my 
father and mother forsake me, then the Lord 











Al! Alone in London. 

















Homeless . 165 

will take me up.” He whispered the words 
half aloud, and he felt as though one of God’s 
angels must be walking with him through the 
dark, dangerous streets, so safe and secure from 
all harm did he feel. 

He had several friends in London who 
would be willing to assist him he knew, some 
of whom lived close by ; but he chose to go to 
a motherly old lady living with her son near 
the Foundry, for he did not wish that his 
brother-in-law’s clerks should know how he had 
been expelled from the house, even though 
they were Methodists. 

There was some difficulty in rousing his 
friends at such a late hour ; but, once made 
sensible who it was knocking at the door, he 
was soon admitted, and a few words of ex- 
planation quite satisfied the old lady; for such 
harsh treatment was only too common in the 
annals of Methodism, and Walter was not the 
first she had succored in an hour of distress. 

Bessy had said he might send for his bag- 
gage the next day, or it should be sent to any 
address he might forward. He had tied up 
a few things in a bundle and brought it with 
him, and with this he resolved to start the 
next day by the earliest mail-coach going in 
the direction of his old home. Not that he 
11 


1 66 


Walter. 


intended to venture there yet, but he would 
go to his uncle Rawlings, and persuade him to 
intercede with his father on his behalf. 

He had not, by any means, given up hope 
of a final reconciliation with his friends again, 
and meanwhile he was comforted and upheld 
by the thought that he was in the path of 
duty ; that he had not willfully offended his 
friends; but in all minor matters he had yield- 
ed to them. It was this yielding disposition 
lately evinced by Walter that made them so 
sure of ultimate success in coercing him to 
give up what he held as his soul’s life, but 
which they looked upon as mere wild fanati- 
cism ; and his elder sister had volunteered her 
services in bringing him to a more sensible 
frame of mind if her friends would only allow 
her to do as she liked, assuring them that 
Walter would certainly give up all his non- 
sense if her plans were followed closely. 

It was not in Dame Mary’s plan, however, to 
turn her brother out of doors on a wet wintry 
night. That he brought on himself, as she 
told her sister, when Bessy ventured to say a 
word on his behalf. He should not have op- 
posed the plans devised for his exclusive ben- 
efit — a mode of reasoning that satisfied Mary 
herself, but did not satisfy her father, who 


Homeless . 


167 

could not rest until he had ascertained where 
Walter had gone ; and he was intensely re- 
lieved when he heard that he had set off to 
visit his uncle. 

A letter was at once written and dispatched 
to Mr. Rawlings begging him to use his influ- 
ence with Walter — to promise any thing and 
every thing if he would only give up his 
religion. 

The letter arrived a few hours before Walter 
himself, and so the vicar was somewhat pre- 
pared for his coming. 

“Well, my lad, you have found time to come 
and see me at last,” said the vicar, holding out 
both his hands in welcome to Walter. 

Walter tried to smile, but it ended in a 
burst of tears ; for he was tired and footsore 
from his long walk from the town where the 
mail-coach stopped, and the thought of this 
being his only refuge now, and that this might 
be closed against him when his uncle knew 
every thing, had made his winter walk any 
thing but a pleasant one. 

Walter was resolved to put this to the test 
at once, and so, before grasping his uncle’s 
hand, he said, “You ought to know — you must 
know that I am a Methodist still, uncle.” 

“Tut, tut; you are Walter Maxwell still, I 


Walter. 


i 68 

suppose. Come in, my lad, come in ; you are 
cold and tired. A good meal and a seat by 
the fire will make things look very different ; 
and then if you like you shall tell me every 
thing. Dame Mary thought to convert you 
with the first taste of her logic, I suppose,” 
laughed the vicar good-humoredly, bustling 
about to make Walter comfortable, after he 
had ordered dinner to be served as quickly as 
possible. 

“ It is not Mary, so much as my father. Do 
you know, uncle, that he has cast me off? ” 
said Walter, the tears still in his eyes. 

“ No, I don’t, and I wont believe it; for I 
know he has been wishing lately that you could 
come home and take your place in the foundry. 
Did he tell you business had begun to revive 
again at last?” 

“ I have not seen him, uncle. He declined 
to see me unless I would give Mary a written 
promise never to see or have any thing to do 
with the Methodists again.” 

“And you refused, of course, as any spirited 
lad would refuse, to be driven to make any 
promise. Dame Mary may be clever in some 
things. She can manage her husband, and 
play the lady of quality to perfection, and do 
almost as she likes with Lucy ; but she is none 


Homeless. 


169 

the less a fool to my way of thinking, and she 
has proved it in this matter. Now, my lad, let 
us go to dinner and forget every thing else for 
a time/’ 

“ Is Lucy at home?” asked Walter. 

“Yes, I suppose so; it is not often she fa- 
vors me with a visit now. Lucy is changed, 
Walter. She is as much a woman of the 
world as Mary herself ; and nothing but those 
little French poodles and the fashion of a new 
dress is worthy of her attention. Your friend, 
Golding, tried to bring her to a better frame of 
mind, I hear; but she soon made him under- 
stand she would listen to none of his preach- 
ing ; and since then no one has tried to hinder 
her from becoming one of the fools of quality. 
But there, I did not mean to mention another 
unpleasant topic. Let me fill your horn again ; 
this is splendid ale,” said the vicar, lifting a 
large tankard as he spoke. 

But Walter put his hand upon the silver- 
rimmed horn to prevent his uncle taking it. 
“ I will not have another drop, uncle,” he said ; 
“ it is not often I drink ale at all now.” 

“ Not drink ale ! Why, what do you drink ? ” 

“ Water, or a cup of sage tea — the tea is Mr. 
Wesley’s favorite beverage, and is cheaper 
than any other.” 


170 


Walter. 


“ It is better than water certainly, but I 
have no 'stomach for such messes ; ” and, not 
caring to bring Mr. Wesley’s name into dis- 
cussion, he began to talk of the revival of busi- 
ness again. “ By the way, Walter, have you 
forgotten the model steam-engine up stairs ? ” 
asked the vicar, looking at him keenly as he 
spoke. 

Walter’s face flushed with pleasure. “ For- 
gotten it, uncle ! I should think not,” said 
Walter. 

“ Well, I wish you would clean it for me 
while you are here. You rubbed it up once 
before, you remember; but it needs taking to 
pieces, I think, and a thorough cleaning, or I 
am afraid it will be spoiled.” 

His uncle’s solicitude about the “model en- 
gine” rather surprised Walter, but at the same 
time it gratified him, and he readily promised 
to set about the work of cleaning it, merely 
remarking it would be a “long job.” 

“ Never mind that, my lad ; take your time 
over it. Tim shall clear out the lumber room 
ready for you to begin to-morrow, and if you 
want any help he can give it you.” Walter 
laughed at the idea of Tim being able to help 
him, and protested that he did not want the 
lumber room cleaned up. “ I would rather 


Homeless. 


171 

have it as it is — as it used to be in the old 
days, when Lucy and I turned it out so often. 
What an El Dorado it was to us both ! ” 

“Almost as good as the old summer parlor 
at home,” laughed the vicar. 

“ Better, uncle, now ; for I have never quite 
liked the old place since Mary burned my 
models there; it has always been too tidy, 
and reminded me too much of what happened 
there ; but your old lumber room is just as 
Lucy and I used to play in it, I suppose.” 

“Just the same, my lad, and we will get 
Lucy here to play there again. Capital ! she 
shall come and help you clean the model in- 
stead of Tim,” and the vicar rubbed his hands 
with delight at the promised success of his 
plan. He determined to drive over to Lips- 
combe the next day and fetch Lucy, and her 
mother too, if Mrs. Maxwell was able to come. 
He told Walter of this, and Walter would 
gladly have gone with him to see his mother 
and sister, but the vicar suggested that it 
would be best to wait a little while, and not 
risk another meeting with Mary just yet. The 
truth was, the vicar did not want to risk his 
own plan for bringing Walter back to the 
wishes of his friends, and he foresaw that a 
meeting too soon would involve a danger of its 


172 


Walter. 


all being spoiled; but he thought if time was 
given for his cure to work, Walter would be 
won over before he was himself aware of it. 

“ Dear heart, uncle ! you have just saved us 
from dying of weariness,” exclaimed Lucy, 
with an affected little laugh, when her uncle 
entered the room. 

“Your brother was almost dying of weari- 
ness yesterday, madame, but it was of a differ- 
ent kind. I verily thought the lad would be 
ill after his long walk, for he was ill-provided 
with money, and had scarce broken his fast all 
day.” 

“ Dear, dear! who can you be talking of? 
Hungry, too ! why did he not sing a love-song 
to some pretty damsel, and she would have 
given him a bounteous meal ? ” 

“ That is enough, Lucy,” her mother vent- 
ured to say ; “ your uncle does not affect the 
fashionable nonsense that is talked now.” 

“ I suppose I am an old-fashioned man, but 
I sometimes wonder whether these fools of 
quality ever could be serious over any thing. I 
tell Lucy here, her brother has been in danger 
of dying of hunger, and she laughs and talks 
of love-songs.” The vicar spoke sternly, but 
looked pityingly at the pretty, vain girl, whom 
he hoped to rescue from her frivolity at the 


Homeless . 


173 

same time as he brought her brother back 
from Methodism. 

But Lucy would not see the look he bent 
upon her, but turned away with a toss of her 
pretty overdressed head, leaving her mother 
to talk to her uncle. 

“ Thank God he has come to you ! ” said 
Dame Maxwell, when he told the news of 
Walter’s arrival ; but Lucy never moved from 
the window where she had taken her station, 
nor gave any sign that she heard the conversa- 
tion going forward. He told of Mary’s harsh, 
arbitrary treatment of Walter, and that he 
had left London with but little money, and 
only a small bundle of clothes, as he had in- 
tended returning there as soon as he had be- 
come reconciled to his friends. 

“ Now, we must prevent that,” said the vicar, 
“ and I want Lucy to help me. Do you hear, 
Lucy ? ” he said, raising his voice and speaking 
to her. 

“ What are you talking about ? Surely you 
cannot want help from me ; I cannot think, you 
know, any more than my poor little doggie, 
and it is positively cruel to ask me to try.” 

“ Now, Lucy, do be serious a minute, and 
listen to your uncle,” expostulated her mother. 

Lucy executed an elaborate courtesy, as an 


Walter. 


174 

intimation that she was awaiting their pleas- 
ure. “ What is it my most reverend uncle 
wants ? ” she asked, with mock solemnity. 

The vicar would have liked to box her ears, 
but he only said, “ I want you to come home 
with me, Lucy.” 

“You want me and all my pets! ” screamed 
Lucy. “What will you do with Jocko, my 
monkey, and the two parrots, and Fido, and 
Floss.” 

“ I wont have them at any price ; but I 
want you, Lucy, to come home with me and try 
to interest Walter in his old work. I have set 
him to clean up the little steam-engine for me, 
and if you were there I think we should suc- 
ceed in winning him back to the old foundry 
again.” 

“ Has he given up being a Methodist, un- 
cle ? ” asked Lucy, forgetting her affectation 
for once. 

“ No, no, that is what I am trying to do. 
Mary’s plan has failed, and — ” 

“And so will yours, uncle,” interrupted Lucy. 
“ I know those Methodists, and he is only try- 
ing to deceive you to serve his own purpose.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” said the vicar. “ Wal- 
ter never tried to deceive me in his life. The 
moment he came in yesterday he told me he was 


Homeless. 


75 


a Methodist. I am trying to deceive him, if it 
is deceit to win him back to you before he is 
aware of it ; and I have come to ask you to 
help me.” 

“ You will never do it, uncle, and I can 
never see Walter while he is a Methodist ; I 
promised Mary I would not,” said Lucy. 

“ Hang Mary! Do you care no more for 
your brother than that — that you will not lift 
your little finger to bring him back to his 
home ? Lucy, I am ashamed of you.” 

“ I have never done any thing half so dis- 
graceful as Walter, and I think it is very hard 
that I should be blamed for riot sacrificing 
myself for his whims ; for it is only a whim,” 
protested Lucy ; “ a wicked, obstinate whim, 
that he ought to have given up long ago.” 

“ Then you will not come back with me, 
Lucy ? ” said the vicar, rising and buttoning up 
his coat. 

“ Certainly not. I might catch the distem- 
per myself,” laughed Lucy ; “ they say the 
most unlikely subjects take it sometimes.” 

“ You are unlikely enough, certainly,” said 
the vicar bitterly ; “ but if I had to choose, I 
would rather see you a Methodist than such 
a feather-headed fool as the world has made 


you. 


i/6 


Walter. 


Dame Maxwell was not sorry to see her 
brother depart, for these encounters with Lucy 
always made her feel uncomfortable. She was 
vaguely proud of this youngest daughter now 
— the beauty of the family — of whom she stood 
in almost as much awe as she did of Mary; but 
the vicar’s strictures on Lucy’s behavior rather 
marred her satisfaction in her darling’s perfec- 
tions, and she forgot to ask when Walter was 
coming, in her agitation over the hard words 
spoken to Lucy. 

The vicar did not fail to notice the omis- 
sion, and resolved to keep Walter with him, 
and not suggest even a visit to his home yet ; 
though how he was to do this without hurting 
the poor fellow’s feelings he did not know. 
But circumstances favored the kind-hearted 
vicar in this ; for when he reached home he 
found Walter crouching over the fire in the 
library, unable to get on with his work of tak- 
ing the engine to pieces because his head 
ached so violently. He had a bad cold ; the 
vicar saw that at once, and insisted upon his 
nursing it, and not exposing himself to the 
inclemency of the weather for some time. 

Walter was so far amenable to his uncle’s 
commands that he did not attempt to go out 
for a day or two ; but when Sunday came he 


Homeless . 


177 


insisted upon going to church, and could not 
fail to notice that a change had taken place 
here, if nothing else in the village had changed. 
His uncle took the whole service himself, read- 
ing the beautiful Church prayers with such 
feeling and reverence that Walter could not 
but be struck with the difference in his reading 
now and what it used to be; and it was evident 
that others besides himself were aware of it, 
for there were more people in church than he 
had ever seen in his life before, despite the 
wintry weather and the bad state of the roads. 

Coming out of church, he stopped to speak 
to one or two of the old folks whom he recog- 
nized, but who failed to recognize .the tall, 
plainly-dressed stranger as their vicar’s neph- 
ew until he made himself known. 

“A mony people in church, sir?” said one 
old woman, repeating Walter’s remark. “Well, 
I don’t know ; we always do get a good many 
now. It didn’t used to be so ; but, bless you, 
parson talks to you that plain, it aint like 
preaching a bit. ’T aint learning, not a bit 
of it, but just plain talk, about God’s com- 
mandments and our duty to our neighbor, and 
the love of the Lord Jesus Christ. Bless you! 
the Methodies couldn’t, couldn’t talk plainer 
than our parson do now; and even the quality 


i;8 


Walter. 


seem to like it, some of ’em, leastwise ; for 
squire, he do come oftener now than when 
there was learning to be had, which I cannot 
but wonder at.” 

Walter did not, however; and, reflecting on 
this change in his uncle’s mode of performing 
his duties, he suddenly recollected what his 
uncle had said when he had returned from 
Gloucester. 

Here, then, was another proof of the glori- 
ous work Mr. Wesley was doing for England 
and the world. And what higher honor, what 
nobler destiny, could any one covet than to be 
the helper of such a man in such a work ? 


An Unsister ly Sister. 


1 79 


CHAPTER XII. 

AN UNSISTERLY SISTER. 

W HETHER the vicar’s plan of winning 
Walter away from Methodism through 
his love of mechanics would finally have suc- 
ceeded we cannot tell ; but before the little 
engine was perfectly put together again a 
messenger came from Lipscombe to say that 
Mr. Maxwell was dying. This was the first 
intimation Walter had received of his father’s 
return from London ; for to all his suggestions 
of going home the vicar had said, “ Wait 
awhile, my lad — wait until your father comes 
back.” 

And Walter had waited and watched and 
studied, almost oblivious of the lapse of time, 
in the delight of puzzling over the problem 
that had occupied his mind from his earliest 
years. It was a rude awakening from the 
pleasant day-dreams, and the shock almost 
stunned Walter by its suddenness. 

It seemed that Mr. Maxwell returned from 
London suffering from a bad cold, and the 
fatigue of the journey and inclemency of the 


180 Walter. 

weather had aggravated the symptoms ; but it 
was thought a few days’ rest and careful nurs- 
ing would restore him, and so little anxiety 
had been felt by any one until the doctor told 
Mary her father was sinking fast, and could 
not live many hours longer. He had, in fact, 
been sinking gradually, but almost impercept- 
ibly, for months; and doubtless this journey 
to London, and the agitation caused by Wal- 
ter’s being turned out of doors so summarily 
by his sisters, had hastened the end. 

It came before Walter could reach his home, 
although he and the vicar had started as soon 
as they received the message ; and Walter’s 
grief at not being in time to say one word to 
his father before he died was almost frantic in 
its intensity. The sneer that Methodists were 
without natural feeling or affection could not 
be brought against Walter, though some of 
his Methodist friends would, doubtless, have 
blamed him for giving way to grief in such an 
uncontrollable manner. His uncle had to do 
something like it at last, urging him, for his 
mother’s sake, to control his feelings, and re- 
minding him that his father was now in God’s 
hands. 

“ O uncle, that is it!” wailed poor Walter. 
“ If I could have known — if he could have 


An Unsisterly Sister. 181 

spoken one word to me about this, that we 
might have a little hope ! ” 

“ Yes, yes, my lad, I know what you mean ; 
and I’ll tell you this for your comfort, that 
your father has been a different man lately. 
That sermon he heard Whitefield preach, he 
never forgot it. We have talked it over a 
good many times ; and though he’d never own 
it, perhaps even to himself, because it would 
be too much like the Methodists, I believe he 
was what you would call ‘converted,’ Walter. 
I dare say Wesley and Whitefield, too, have 
done many a work like this among people who 
are too proud to own it, like as your father 
was.” 

Walter was glad to catch at any straw of 
comfort, and this was more than he expected 
after the way his father had treated him ; but 
his uncle reminded him that it was his sisters 
rather than his father who were responsible 
for this, and Walter’s grief grew more calm 
after he had had this talk with his uncle. 

It was arranged that he should stay at home 
until after the funeral ; but it was curious to 
notice how every body avoided him as much 
as possible. His mother was ill, and Mary 
and Lucy were attending to her or ordering 
the mourning all day long. Lucy never had 
12 


Walter. 


182 

time to sit ten minutes with her brother, while 
Mary was barely civil. 

Walter went to the foundry and talked to 
the workmen about the revival of business, 
and heard from one and another that he was 
expected to step into his father’s place and 
infuse new life in the old place. But Walter 
shook his head. “God has other work than 
this for me to do now ; and, unless it is abso- 
lutely necessary — unless I am almost com- 
pelled to do it — I shall have nothing to do 
with the dear old foundry now.” 

“Well, well, Master Walter, I won’t gainsay 
it, if the Lord have called you to work for 
him. You began a good work among us five 
or six years ago, and, though we be but a 
little band, thank God, we haven’t forgot that 
time.” The man was a Methodist himself, 
and the mainstay of the little Society here, as 
well as foreman of the foundry, where he had 
worked for years. He told Walter of a visit 
“Parson Golding” had paid them the previous 
summer — for Horace was an ordained clergy- 
man, now settled in a large parish, and doing 
his work all the better for being a “ Meth- 
odist parson” and the friend of Mr. Wesley. 
He had come to the room where they held 
their prayer-meetings and class-meetings, and 


An Unsister ly Sister. 183 

preached to them, and afterward held an out- 
door service in the church-yard. “ O, and the 
master was there to listen to the sermon, too, 
Walter!” added the old man. “He didn’t 
think any of us saw him, and didn’t want to be 
seen, I knew that, and I took care he shouldn’t 
be, and I never said a word about it to any 
body till now ; but I thought it would kind of 
comfort you, master, now.” 

“Yes, yes, my uncle has been telling me 
something like this,” said Walter, choking 
back his tears ; “ but if I could have seen him 
• — said one word to him before he died ! I 
shall always blame myself that I did not come 
straight here instead of going to Whitemead.” 

“ Well, well, I think it was better you did 
not. If the master and missis were by them- 
selves, it would have been best ; but Dame 
Mary and Mistress Lucy are the masters here 
now ; so don’t fret. I’d like to know what is 
to be done with the old place,” added the 
man. 

“ You shall know as soon as I do,” said 
Walter; “but I hope my father has not left 
any commands for me to take it up.” 

Walter’s wish was gratified in this particu- 
lar. The will had been made some years be- 
fore, and whatever wishes Mr. Maxwell might 


Walter. 


184 

have indulged in lately were not expressed in 
this now, and so Walter was left free to choose 
his future path in life ; for he could come back 
to the old foundry if he liked — the will gave 
him this choice — and if he did not, it was to 
be carried on by the trustees for the benefit of 
Mrs. Maxwell, and at her death to be wound 
up. 

The foundry, it seemed, was all Mr. Max- 
well had to leave. The consternation this 
caused, where every body expected a share in 
a large fortune, can be better imagined than 
described. Walter was glad to escape from 
the scene of confusion at home to the quiet 
of his uncle’s parsonage. He had made up his 
mind as to his future before his father’s will 
was read, and he hoped his penniless condition 
would interfere but little with the carrying of 
it out. 

Lady Huntingdon had established a college 
at Trevecca, in South Wales. The terms of 
admission were, that the students should be 
truly converted to God and resolved to dedi- 
cate themselves to his service. During three 
years they were to be boarded and instructed 
gratuitously, at her ladyship’s cost, and sup- 
plied every year with a suit of clothes ; at the 
end of that time they were either to take or- 


An Unsister ly Sister. 185 

ders, or enter the ministry among Dissenters 
of any denomination. Walter’s wish was to 
fit himself for a missionary to America, either 
to be sent by the “ Society for the Propagation 
of the Gospel,” which had lately been estab- 
lished, or to go as one of Mr. Wesley’s or Mr. 
Whitefield’s helpers, wherever they might like 
to send him. To fit himself for this, he re- 
solved to go to Lady Huntingdon’s college if 
he could obtain admission. 

He wrote to some of his Methodist friends 
in London, immediately after his father’s death, 
and through these he made application to 
Lady Huntingdon, for admission to her col- 
lege, which, after due inquiry, was at once 
granted, much to Walter’s satisfaction and his 
uncle’s annoyance. 

The vicar knew nothing of what Walter de- 
sired until the matter was almost settled, and 
then he protested loudly against it. “ Why 
not go to Oxford or Cambridge and take a 
parson’s degree properly ? ” said his uncle, “ I 
would have paid all your expenses at the uni- 
versity, for though I cannot leave you my 
property, who has a greater right to share in 
it than my sister’s children? Go to Oxford, 
my lad, and when you have taken your degree 
come and help me here at Whitemead.” 


36 


Walter. 


But Walter shook his head. “ I am a Meth- 
odist, uncle ; ” he said, “ and I cannot give it 
up even to please you. I want to carry this 
gospel, that Mr. Whitefield preaches, to the 
plantations of America or the West Indies, I 
care not which, so that I may enlighten some 
dark souls.” 

“And why not try to enlighten the dark 
souls at home ? ” said the vicar, rather sharply. 

“ Because they have Mr. Wesley and hun- 
dreds of others ; but in the plantations they 
are perishing for lack of knowledge.” 

In vain the vicar urged the claims of his 
family. Walter took refuge under Mr. Wes- 
ley’s authority, that he was under no obligation 
to be intimate with his brothers and sisters, as 
they were all worldly people. Perhaps he had 
as much excuse as anyone to urge this, seeing 
how he had been treated by them — but it was 
not Christlike ; this was one of the few defects 
of Methodism, inseparable from all human in- 
stitutions. Doubtless it was urged by Mr. 
Wesley as a safeguard against his followers 
being drawn into the evil courses from which 
so many of them had been rescued ; and many 
of them lacked the liberal, catholic spirit of 
their guide, or his gentle urbanity and wise 
discretion ; and many, like Walter, substituted 


An Unsister ly Sister . 187 

a sectarian for a catholic spirit, which often 
carried disunion and discord into private life, 
breaking up families and friendships, and caus- 
ing much domestic unhappiness, as well as 
bringing discredit on the name of religion. 

But before Walter went away from the vic- 
arage he was called to part with his mother. 
She lived little more than a month after her 
husband had been laid in the grave, and quietly 
passed away, surrounded by all her children, and 
mourned for in many a humble cottage-home 
besides her own. Walter stood at her bedside 
when she died, and tried to speak to her once 
or twice. She evidently understood his desire 
and the anxiety that prompted it ; for, turning 
her face toward him, she whispered, “ Peace, 
peace ; ” and her whole countenance showed 
that there was abundance of peace, if not re- 
pentance, in her death. But Walter could not 
believe in this, although his uncle told him of 
little incidents in his mother’s later life that 
might have assured him she had turned to God 
“ with all her heart and with all her soul,” as she 
had all her life been a good woman and a true 
mother to her children. This latter argument 
Walter scouted as self-righteousness, and per- 
sisted in mourning as though his mother was 
eternally lost, because she hacj never experb 


1 88 


Walter. 


cnced the conversion that was accepted as 
such by the Methodists. This was the worst 
side of Methodism. It was not according 
to the spirit or teaching of Mr. Wesley ; and 
it was a pity that Walter should have exhibit- 
ed it to his family as he did, for it only in- 
creased their hatred of what he held most 
dear. 

He saw little of his brothers and sisters after 
his mother’s funeral. Lucy studiously avoided 
him, although, at the same time, she felt hurt 
that he did not inquire where she was to live 
in future, for she was totally unprovided for 
beyond what the sale of the foundry and 
household effects would realize. 

Early in the spring Walter commenced his 
journey to Wales, his heart still sore from his 
recent bereavement, but full of eager hope and 
anticipation for the future. He had known 
but little of the pleasure of Christian commun- 
ion, but he had formed extravagant ideas con- 
cerning it, and at Trevecca he thought they 
would be fully realized ; for though he did not 
think he had attained to Christian perfection 
fiimself, he had heard a great deal about it 
from his Methodist friends, and surely it would 
be found in this college, where none were ad- 
mitted but those truly converted to God, and 


An Unsister ly Sister, 189 

filled with a desire to engage in his service. 
Surely among these there were many who had 
attained to that constant communion with 
God to which the humblest believer might 
aspire; and in their company Walter hoped 
speedily to attain this spiritual elevation him- 
self. Hitherto he had stood at a lowly dis- 
tance from such as he had heard of as being 
“ perfect,” feeling that he could not claim any 
such distinction in the worldly calling that en- 
gaged his attention ; but now he was going 
where there would be nothing to distract his 
mind from such exalted thoughts and aims, 
but where communion with God would be at 
once the duty and delight of all dwelling with- 
in those hallowed walls. 

But, alas for his hopes! He had not been 
long at Trevecca before he was initiated into 
the little cliques this society was divided into. 
True, some of them professed to have attained, 
as well as the Methodists, to the “ perfection” 
Count Zinzendorf and the Moravian brethren 
preached ; but it did not prevent jealousies 
and angry bickerings among its subjects, none 
the less bitter for being theological differences 
of opinion upon some subject held to be of 
vital importance by these young candidates 
for the ministry. 


190 


Walter. 


Of course, Calvinism, as expounded by 
Whitefield, and the opposite doctrine, as 
preached by Wesley, were a fruitful source of 
discussion, and there was little charity and less 
liberality exhibited by those holding the be- 
lief that they were “perfect” than others who 
had a more humble opinion of themselves. 

Walter was disappointed, as may be supposed, 
when he came to understand what student- 
life at Trevecca really was, and he was in 
danger of going to the opposite extreme and 
leaving the college in disgust, which would 
have been quite as foolish, and more unjust to 
his companions, than his previous opinion of 
them had been. The truth was, this was not 
a community of perfect young men, as Walter 
expected ; but a school where some, while an- 
imated with the noblest aims and desires, were 
yet troubled with tempers exceedingly human, 
and none were more painfully conscious of it 
than themselves. They were not saints by 
any means, but earnest-hearted, noble-minded 
young men, many of them ignorant, and most 
of them bigoted, but just such men. on the 
whole, as the world needed in those days. 

But Walter was favored in that he was per- 
mitted to know a saint during the last few 
months of his stay at Trevecca; for Mr. 


An Unsister ly Sister . 19 1 

Fletcher, the friend of Wesley, and one of the 
ablest champions of Methodism, became the 
visiting superintendent of the college, and 
from him Walter learned more of the meaning 
of “ holiness to the Lord,” from his daily life, 
than ever he* had gained from books. He was 
a Frenchman, but converted in England. He 
was ordained as a clergyman after traveling 
about for some time with Mr. Wesley, whom 
he loved as a brother, and whom he was al- 
ways ready to help, as far as his health and 
means would allow, both before and after his 
establishment at Madeley as a clergyman. 
None but a noble, catholic-minded man could 
hold the position he did in the two opposing 
camps of Methodists, while, at the same time, 
he abated nothing of his zeal in the service 
of the Church of which he was a minister. 
Fletcher would have been a saint in any com- 
munion, and will ever be one of the brightest 
ornaments of Methodism and the Church of 
England the world has ever seen. 

Walter profited much by the counsel and 
warning given by this illustrious servant of 
God to those about to leave the shelter of the 
college, and the spiritual pride which had be- 
gun to creep into Fis heart was checked and 
chilled, if not quite subdued ; and he wrote to 


192 


Walter. 


his uncle in a more humble and teachable 
strain than his letters had been lately, asking 
his advice about his future career, and many 
questions as to the welfare of Lucy and his 
other sisters and brothers. 

But the answer came in a strange handwrit- 
ing, and was but a short, business-like note, 
informing him of his uncle’s death, which had 
taken place some days previous to the arrival 
of the letter. The vicar was not ill many 
hours, and there was no time to summon any 
of his friends to his death-bed, but some mem- 
bers of his family had been present at the fu- 
neral, and a few trifling souvenirs had been left 
for himself. This was all the information 
Walter could glean, although he wrote several 
times asking for fuller particulars ; and so, at 
last, he decided that he would go to America 
as soon as his college course was at an end ; 
and as a journey to Whitemead and Lips- 
combe would only revive painful memories of 
the past, he resolved to spend the time he 
could spare in the city of his spiritual birth — 
Gloucester. His Aunt Euphrasia was dead, and 
so was Robert Raikes the elder. He had died 
in 1757, about five years before; but young 
Robert was established as the editor and pro- 
prietor of the “Journal,” and had often sent 


An Unsister ly Sister . 193 

Walter a copy of his paper during his stay at 
Trevecca. 

His late intercourse with Mr. Fletcher had 
made Walter more tolerant of what he had 
previously looked upon as mere worldly am- 
bition, and during this stay at Gloucester he 
confessed to himself that it might be possible 
for men engaged in worldly callings — mer- 
chants and printers — to do God’s service in 
the world ; for Robert Raikes was doing noble 
work for God in visiting the prisoners and 
teaching them to read, as well as relieving 
their bodily distress. His “Journal,” too, was 
a noble exception to the scandalous and friv- 
olous newspapers of the day. This, however, 
was less appreciated by Walter than the prison 
labors of his friend ; for this was one of the things 
a Methodist could readily understand, as Mr. 
Wesley used to visit Newgate until an outcry 
was raised against the Methodists, and he was 
denied admittance to the prisoners. Sunday 
was one of Robert Raikes* days for visiting 
the jail and giving more definite religious in- 
struction, especially to the younger portion 
of the prisoners ; but beyond this he had not 
yet attempted any thing in the way of teach- 
ing the poor children of the streets, as he and 
Walter had talked of when they were boys. 


194 


Walter. 


But the prison work was going on bravely, 
and Robert Raikes could tell of some who had 
thanked God they had been brought to Glou- 
cester jail. The plan he had just adopted was 
this: If he could find one among the prisoners 
able to teach his companions to read he em- 
ployed him to do so, encouraging his diligence 
and fidelity by pecuniary rewards, and pro- 
curing for him such other indulgences as the 
magistrates would allow, and he found it an- 
swer admirably. The learning to read not 
only served as an amusement for the prisoners 
during their hours of confinement, but often 
served as a recommendation when they left 
and needed work ; so that the name of Raikes 
was likely to be remembered by many a poor 
outcast after he left prison. 

Such practical Christianity, by one whose 
calling Walter had hitherto despised as world- 
ly, did him good, and helped to give him more 
just views of men and things, while it was not 
likely to lessen the ardor he felt for his self- 
chosen work in America. 


An Election Riot . 


195 


CHAPTER XIII. 

AN ELECTION RIOT. 

W ALTER wrote to Lucy just before he 
sailed for America, but neither asked 
nor expected an answer ; for none of his let- 
ters written from Trevecca had ever received 
any reply. But whether Lucy thought she 
should be able to keep him back from the 
mad enterprise, if she saw him, or whether her 
heart began to reproach her for discarding her 
brother, she wrote a very affectionate letter in 
reply to this last one ; but it did not reach 
Walter’s hands until he had been in America 
several years. He went out as a missionary 
under the auspices of the “ Society for the 
Propagation of the Gospel,” and was com- 
mended to the rector of Trinity Church, New 
York, to be retained in the work of that rap- 
idly growing parish, or sent to the Mohawk 
Indians, or anywhere the rector might think 
he was most needed. It was not until another 
missionary came out that his letter was for- 
warded, and then he had left New York. 
Trinity Parish was not at all the kind of work 


Walter. 


196 

Walter had been longing for ; it was too much 
like a country parish at home ; nay, it was 
rather in advance of some parishes, for, in ad- 
dition to a handsome church, it had a chapel 
of ease, a few streets off, for the accommoda- 
tion of the poor, and a school, offering educa- 
tion free, with religious training according to 
the Episcopal Church. The differences be- 
tween Church and Dissent were as rampant 
here as in England, only the majority were Dis- 
senters, the difference being as one to fifteen. 

Six months in New York convinced Walter 
that he could not work in such harness as was 
there provided, and he set off on a preaching 
tour through the States of New England first, 
to ascertain whether the religion brought over 
by the grand old Pilgrim fathers had been 
suffered to fall into decay — whether religion 
was at as low an ebb here as in England when 
Mr. Wesley began his work of field-preaching; 
for now things had begun to improve in the 
Church itself, as well as through the establish- 
ment of the numerous branches of the Meth- 
odist Society. 

Walter found himself warmly welcomed as 
a friend from the mother country; but this 
noble daughter was more honorable than her 
parent had been, for here Walter found that 


An Election Riot . 


197 


the means of religious instruction were care- 
fully provided, and the people well trained in 
regular and pious habits, so that there was 
less need for his work here than in New York; 
so, turning his face southward, he journeyed 
on, preaching as he went, until he came to 
Philadelphia, where he was compelled to make 
a long stay, owing to an illness that seized 
him and rendered him incapable of active work 
for nearly a year. The name and fame of 
Wesley and Whitefield seemed to be known 
every-where ; for Whitefield had spent a good 
deal of his time in America, as Walter was 
now doing — preaching the gospel of the king- 
dom, but nowhere organizing men into a so- 
ciety for mutual help and instruction. It re- 
quired the genius of a Wesley to do this ; and 
so of Methodists proper there were none to 
be found in America, although Walter often 
met with Christian men and women holding 
precisely the same doctrines as his own ; for 
he had during this time returned to his old 
allegiance to Mr. Wesley, giving up the Cal- 
vinism of Whitefield. 

During his illness at Philadelphia he stayed 
with a teacher there, Anthony Benezet, a man 
who, like himself, had given up the position 
of a merchant to become a teacher. Benezet 
13 


Walter. 


198 

came of an old Huguenot family, and he had 
had his attention called to the state of the 
slaves in Guinea, and was then writing a tract 
on the history of Guinea, with a special view to 
setting forth the wrongs of the slaves. Then 
Walter told him of Lucy’s idea that the slave- 
trade ought to be stopped and the slaves set 
free, and the two friends discussed the subject 
over and over again. Benezet wrote and wrote, 
hoping his little tract might stir up some other 
heart against this great wrong ; and Walter 
prayed that the little seed about to be planted 
might bring forth fruit a hundred-fold. 

If these two friends could but have lifted 
the veil concealing the future, and known the 
mighty influence this little tract was to have 
on the world’s history, they would both have 
blessed God for the ague that made them in- 
capable of more active employment, but gave 
them time and opportunity to make known to 
the world the enormities that were committed 
by Christian nations in enslaving their fellow- 
creatures. 

It was this little tract of Benezet’s that, 
falling into the hands of Clarkson, some years 
later, inspired him to write his prize essay on 
the slave-trade, which roused in England the 
agitation that ended in its abolition. 


An Election Riot. 


199 

But there were other voices besides Bene- 
zet’s being raised here in America against this 
odious traffic. While Benezet was writing his 
tract, here in this same city of Philadelphia a 
merchant was refusing help from pecuniary 
difficulties because the money offered had 
been gained in the slave-trade. It needed 
some moral courage for Ralph Sandiford, the 
Philadelphia merchant, to proclaim himself an 
abolitionist under such conditions. His was 
but a single voice ; but we thank God for the 
echoes of those voices that have come down 
to us — not lost in the grand shout that, at last, 
was raised to sweep away this gigantic wrong, 
but the soft, sweet heralds of it, telling of fresh 
life in the Church of God making itself felt 
in tender consciences, and the daring of all 
dangers rather than being false to the voice 
of God within. 

A few months later Walter met with anoth- 
er witness — a minister of the Society of Friends 
— who, like himself, was journeying from place 
to place, preaching and teaching, and every- 
where refusing the hospitality of those who 
held slaves. How many privations this must 
have involved we can scarcely imagine. We 
know that it must have closed the doors of all 
the wealthy and well-to-do families, for there 


200 


Walter. 


was scarcely one but held slaves in those days ; 
and so noble John Woolman would have to 
trudge many a weary mile, hungry and foot- 
sore, that he might be true to his conscience 
and bear his testimony faithfully against this 
sin. 

About the time that he met with John 
Woolman, Walter received Lucy’s letter, writ- 
ten before he left England. He wished it had 
reached him before he sailed, for his heart 
yearned toward this dearly loved sister, in 
spite of all that had happened, and of the Meth- 
odist doctrine, as he understood it, about giving 
up worldly relations ; and he resolved to write 
to her at once, telling her how disappointed 
he felt at not receiving her letter before he left 
England, and how much he had thought of her 
lately and of her old wish to free the slaves. 
Then he told her of Anthony Benezet and his 
tract, and of John Woolman, the Quaker min- 
ister, who hoped, and prayed, and believed that 
the slave-trade would be abolished, although 
it seemed such a wild, impossible dream now. 

“ Wild, indeed ! I should think so,” remarked 
Dame Mary, when Lucy lent her the letter to 
read. “No one but a madman, like Walter, 
would ever think of such a thing.” 

Lucy did not like to tell her sister any thing 


An Election Riot . 


201 


of her old hopes and aspirations upon the same 
subject ; but Walter’s letter brought them back 
vividly to her remembrance, and a vague longing 
that she could think the same now came over 
her as she sat playing with her pet dog. Those 
girlish hopes and aspirations, how she had 
abandoned them all ! how different her life had 
been from what she used to plan that it should 
be, when she and Walter sat in the old summer 
parlor or their uncle’s lumber room ! She 
wished she could go back to those days and 
live her life over again. It should be some- 
thing very different from what it was now ; for 
Lucy was heartily weary of dissipation and 
flattery, and of dazzling every body by her wit 
or beauty, which had been the main object of 
her life for some years, but -had begun to grow 
distasteful to her now. 

She was roused from her reverie of vain regrets 
by her sister bringing her another letter, which 
had just been sent by the hand of a messenger 
to Dame Harewood from her husband, who 
was away from home on business connected 
with the recent dissolution of Parliament. 

“ Read that,” said Mary, throwing it into 
her sister’s lap, and sitting down opposite. 

“ I cannot quite make it out,” said Lucy. 

“ I can ; though it has taken me nearly an 


202 


Walter. 


hour to get at its meaning, for John does so 
hate trouble that he never can write a letter 
properly. He wants to know if I have heard 
that another candidate is coming forward for 
Peckington. Did you ever hear of such au- 
dacity ? ” exclaimed Dame Mary, growing red 
with anger. “The borough is our own,” she 
went on. “ The Harewoods have always rep- 
resented it in Parliament ; it was only made a 
borough, I believe, that they might get into 
Parliament ; and for another to question John’s 
right to the seat is abominable.” 

“What will John do?” asked Lucy, rather 
languidly. 

“ Whatever I tell him, of course. Lucy, we 
must both be up and doing over this, for I 
never will submit to such a disgrace.” 

“ But what can we do ? ” asked Lucy. 

“ Every thing. Carry the election ; for if I 
get John to make a speech at the nomination 
it is as much as I can expect of him ; the rest 
we must do ourselves. My dear, I know how 
to go to work, for I have helped in it before. I 
can tell you the quality all do it, for that mat- 
ter, only we have never been troubled with 
such a vulgar thing as an election before, for 
every body knew that Peckington belonged to 
the Harewoods ; and fora new man to come for- 


An Election Riot. 203 

ward, posting the town with notices that he 
will curtail the extravagance of the ruling 
families, why, it is quite shocking ! ” 

“ But still I don’t see how we can prevent 
it,” said Lucy. 

“ We must, I tell you. To-morrow I will 
have out my new coach, and do you put on 
that cherry-colored lutestring train that has 
just been sent from London, and we will go 
to the town and buy something at every shop. 
We must be vastly civil, too : chuck the chil- 
dren under the chin, and ask the butcher’s wife 
about her rheumatism, and all the old goodies 
after their deafness, and the Methodists after 
Wesley.” 

“The Methodists?” repeated Lucy. 

“To be sure; Methodists have votes nowa- 
days ; for some of them, though poor enough 
when they are converted, soon make money 
afterward, and so they must be spoken to with 
the rest of the vulgar herd. I shall leave that 
to you, Lucy.” 

“ You would better not depend upon me for 
any thing,” said Lucy. “ I feel out of sorts 
just now.” 

“ Nonsense ! you must help me, Lucy. I 
thought you would like to go among Walter’s 
friends. You might tell them you had a 


204 


Walter. 


brother a Methodist ; that alone would win us 
a dozen votes at least,” laughed Mary. 

But Lucy did not join in her sister’s merri- 
ment. Somehow it grated on her, and she 
was glad when her sister left her to herself 
again. But she would have to go the next 
day and do all the dirty work her sister had been 
talking about ; for her brother-in-law would 
not have spirit or animation enough to ask for 
a vote if he saw one going a-begging, and why 
he should be so anxious for a seat in Parlia- 
ment she was puzzled to know. He would 
occupy it sometimes, she supposed, and vote 
as his party directed ; but he would not be ex- 
pected to understand any thing beyond the 
fashions of brocade and chintz and the shape 
of tea-cups ; for these were what he had dozed 
and dreamed over all his life. 

The next morning the Harewood coach 
drove into the town, Dame Mary dressed in 
her richest brocade, and a stomacher studded 
with pearls and diamonds that a countess 
might have envied ; and Lucy, if not as richly 
dressed as her sister, looking more gracious and 
winning, as she descended from the coach and 
entered the principal draper establishment to 
give such orders as almost took away the 
breath of the modest shopkeeper, who had 


An Election Riot. 


205 


never aspired to serve the Hall with more than 
its dusters and kitchen drapery. Of course, 
his vote was secured. ; for he could not have 
refused madam any thing after such patronage. 
The butchers and the grocers were treated to 
the same extensive orders — Lucy wondering 
when and where all the things could be con- 
sumed ; for shop after shop was visited, Dame 
Mary cajoling, bribing, bullying, if needful, to 
secure a waverer in her husband’s cause. 

She was, upon the whole, very successful; but 
still she did not feel that her position was quite 
secure, and there were still a few votes unde- 
cided, which she knew not how to gain. These 
were the Methodists, and she felt that the same 
tactics used with the other electors would not 
serve with these. 

“ Lucy, how can we manage it ? I cannot 
afford to lose those votes, for it may cost us 
the election. I wish you would go and talk to 
these fanatics.” 

But Lucy shook her head. “ I cannot do 
that, Mary,” she said seriously. 

Dame Mary fumed and fretted and fidgeted, 
and at last told Lucy she must go. She might 
go to some of their meetings — might be a Meth- 
odist herself for the time, so that she gained 
the votes. 


2o6 Walter. 

“ I wish I was one in reality,” said Lucy, 
with a touch of bitterness in her tone. 

Her sister stared. “ If you wish that, what 
is to hinder you from going among them?” 
she said sarcastically. 

“ My very wish to be like them. No, no, 
Mary, I cannot be a hypocrite — I cannot pre- 
tend to be a Methodist even to oblige you.” 

“ But you would to oblige yourself. I am 
getting tired of your selfishness, I can tell you, 
Lucy, and the sooner you make up your mind 
to accept a home of your own the better you 
will please me.” It was not the first time 
Lucy had been told the same thing when her 
sister was angry with her, and so she did not 
pay much attention to it now, but went on 
darning the lace lappet she had torn in one 
of the numerous expeditions to Peckington. 

The Methodist votes were secured for Mr. 
Harewood, but not through Lucy, and Mary 
told her of this again and again — although 
Lucy was as busy as any body knotting rib- 
bons ready to pin on them, and on all who 
would wear the Harewood colors ; and as the 
days went on the ferment increased ; and, what 
with the ringing of bells, the arrival and de- 
parture of messengers, the drinking of the can- 
didate’s health at his own expense at every 


An Election Riot. 


207 

ale-house bearing his colors, the whole coun- 
try side was almost beside itself. 

The day of election came at last — none too 
soon for Lucy, who was as tired of this bustle 
as she was of every thing else in the world of 
fashion and frivolity. New lutestring trains 
and velvet hats had been sent from London 
for the two ladies, and they boldly rode into 
the town, although they had been warned that 
the opposing candidates had organized a band 
of the roughest and wildest fellows of the 
neighborhood to intercept the true and loyal 
electors in the Harewood interest. A little 
rioting, stone-throwing, and fighting was in- 
separable from a contested election, where 
every body was three parts tipsy before the 
business of the day began; and so Dame Mary 
laughed at those who would have dissuaded 
her from going to the town in her coach just 
in the midst of the fray. She was not afraid 
of a few broken heads or bleeding noses. She 
rather enjoyed the spectacle ; it was as good 
as a street-fire in London, and better than any 
bull or badger-baiting, to see the drunken mob 
fighting and tearing each other for what the 
candidate himself would not soil his fingers 
to gain. 

But when Dame Mary said this she was 


208 


Walter. 


thinking of other people’s heads being broken, 
not her own or her sister’s. No one would 
ever dare to touch them, she thought ; they 
would be as safe in their coach, bearing the 
Harewood arms newly painted on the panels, 
as in their parlor at the Hall. She was mis- 
taken, however, in this. The opposing candi- 
date had bribed the mob almost as much as 
Dame Mary had bribed the electors, and they 
meant mischief as well as fun. 

As soon as the Harewood carriage was seen 
nearing the hustings the crowd of roughs 
closed round it, the traces of the horses were 
cut to stop its further progress, and rough, 
unkempt heads were thrust in at the glass 
doors to stare at the two frightened ladies ; 
for Dame Mary was frightened, and could not 
conceal it, while Lucy covered her face with 
her hands to shut out the sight of the shriek- 
ing, grinning, yelling crowd that surrounded 
them. 

Some of their friends saw their peril from a 
neighboring window, and hastened to rescue 
them. In the fight which ensued for the pos- 
session of the carriage it was overturned, 
whether by friends or foes no one could tell. 
The coachman had jumped from the box just 
before, and implored his mistress and Lucy 


An Election Riot . 


209 


to get out and make their way through the 
crowd on foot ; but Dame Mary refused, and 
the next minute the coach went over, and she 
was lying stunned and bruised on top of Lucy, 
who neither moved nor spoke. 

The crowd was sobered by the sight of the 
mischief they had done, and readily made 
way for friends to come to the rescue. The 
carriage lay on its side, and it was not easy to 
lift the portly form of Dame Mary out with- 
out injuring her sister, who lay all of a heap 
amid broken glass, and splintered panels, and 
crushed finery, as though she was dead. 

Mary, however, made noise enough for half 
a dozen people, groaning, and screaming, and 
scolding by turns, in such a hearty fashion as 
to prove quite a relief to those who were 
helping her ; for, though she protested that 
she was killed and all her limbs broken, they 
knew there was little beyond a few cuts and 
bruises, or there would not be so much noise. 
When they had got her out she was lifted to 
a chair and carried to the tavern, where her 
husband and some of his friends were watching 
the progress of the election. 

But when they came to lift out poor Lucy 
they knew not w'hat to think. Her injuries 
were far more serious than her sister’s, it was 


210 


Walter. 


very evident, and they carried her to the near- 
est house, not knowing whether she was dead 
or alive. As they laid her on the bed a faint 
groan escaped her pallid lips, and a doctor was 
instantly sent for, and a messenger dispatched 
to the tavern to assure Dame Harewood that 
her sister had not been killed. 


Prejudice Conquered. 


211 


CHAPTER XIV. 

PREJUDICE CONQUERED. 

UCY was not actually killed by the over- 



' turning of the carriage, but for a week 
her life hung in the balance, her injuries were 
so serious. Her sister had not altogether es- 
caped either. The shock and fright proved 
more dangerous than the actual wounds and 
bruises, and Dame Mary lay very ill at the 
Hall, while Lucy lay hovering between life 
and death at the house to which she had first 
been carried. It was impossible to move her 
now. The very attempt might prove fatal, 
the doctor said, and so Lucy was left in the 
town, much to her sister’s annoyance ; for she 
had heard that the people upon whose kind- 
ness she was obliged to trespass were Meth- 
odists. Of course she took care that a nurse 
and Lucy’s own maid should be sent to wait 
upon the invalid, and at first every attention 
was paid to her in the way of a daily messen- 
ger being sent from the Hall to inquire after 
her progress ; but when Dame Mary herself 
got well, she thought Lucy ought to do the. 


212 


Walter. 


same — that she could, if she liked, rouse her- 
self sufficiently to warrant her being moved to 
the Hall. Finding the doctor, however, still 
bent upon keeping her where she was, she 
took herself off to Bath to avoid the nuisance 
of visiting her sister in such an objectionable 
place. 

Lucy grieved a little at first over her sister’s 
desertion, but by and by she began to be in- 
terested in the daily life of her hosts, or, rather, 
such faint echoes of it as reached her sick- 
room. Morning and evening came the faint 
sound of singing — singing that reminded the 
sick lady up-stairs of her brother and their 
happy days together, and how she had - hard- 
ened her heart against him when she first 
heard him sing these sweet, soft Methodist 
hymns; for Lucy did not need her maid to tell 
her what they were. 

“ Open the door, Molly, and let me listen,” 
she said, one day. “ How sweet those chil- 
dren’s voices sound ! I wonder what they are 
singing ? ” 

Molly, who loved her young mistress in 
spite of her peevishness and variable temper, 
resolved to ask their hostess to lend her a Meth- 
odist hymn book. It might amuse her young 
mistress, she thought, and the doctor had said 


Prejudice Conquered. 2 1 3 

any thing that would amuse and interest her 
would be better than medicine ; and so in the 
course of the day she asked for the book, a 
little curious herself to see and know what it 
could be that set these people singing, every 
day, hymns that ought only to be sung in 
church. 

She contrived that her mistress should see 
her reading the book, and, as she expected, 
Lucy at once asked what it was. 

“ I thought I should like to see what set 
the folks down stairs singing so often. If you 
will believe me, Mistress Lucy, I caught the 
woman singing over her washing-tub some- 
thing about * Jesus, Lover of my soul.’ Of 
course, it is very shocking, but she says it helps 
her over many a hard bit in the day’s work to 
sing Mr. Wesley’s hymns, and so I suppose 
there cannot be much harm in them.” 

“ 1 don’t know,” said Lucy ; “ let me see 
the book. You are as witless as a tyke, Molly. 
I may be able to know whether they are proper 
for good Christians to read.” 

Molly laughed to herself over her little ruse to 
amuse her mistress. It had succeeded beyond 
her expectations; for Lucy spoke with an 
eagerness she had not shown before over any 
thing. Lucy was getting better certainly. 

14 


214 


Walter. 


The services of the hired nurse could be dis- 
pensed with now, and she be left to the care 
of Molly and her hostess, who came to sit with 
her sometimes, while Molly went up to the 
Hall on an errand for her mistress. Lucy often 
contrived such errands for the sake of Molly 
having a walk and a breath of fresh air ; and 
she sent her on one to-day, when she knew 
Mrs. Watts would come to sit with her for half 
an hour before Molly came back. 

Mrs. Watts came in as usual, with her baby 
in her arms, to ask if she could do any thing 
for the invalid. 

“ I want you to tell me what hymn you 
were singing this morning,” said Lucy. 

“ I hope we did not disturb you, madam/’ 
said the gentle-faced woman. Lucy was often 
addressed by her sister’s title of “ madam ” 
here, and she smiled at her hostess’ fear of dis- 
turbing her. 

“ O, no ; you did not disturb me,” said 
Lucy, who was certainly regaining something 
of her old sweetness of disposition. “ I like 
to hear the children sing. Will you let them 
come up here and sing over some of their 
hymns ? You see I have got the book you lent 
Molly/’ 

“ Yes, madam, I see,” said the woman, hard- 


Prejudice Conquered. 2 1 5 

ly knowing what to think of Lucy’s strange 
request. 

“And you will let the children come?” 
pressed Lucy. 

“ Certainly, madam, they shall come if it 
wont be troubling you — the noise, I mean — 
for the hymns, the sweet words they sing, are 
just the most comforting that ever were writ- 
ten, save and except the Bible itself.” 

“ There is one I sometimes hear you singing. 
Is it in this book?” asked Lucy. 

“Well, now, I wonder which it is you mean ?” 
said the woman, beginning to feel more at her 
ease, and setting the baby on the floor, to take 
the book. 

“What were you singing this morning?” 
asked Lucy. 

“ Well, now, I think it was this ; and there 
never was a sweeter hymn than ‘Jesus, Lover 
of my soul.’ ” 

Lucy took the book and read — or, rather, 
drank in — the tender prayer : 

“ Jesus, Lover of my soul. 

Let me to thy bosom fly. 

While the nearer waters roll, 

While the tempest still is high ! 

Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, 

Till the storm of life is gast ; 

Safe into the haven guide ; 

O receive my soul at last ! ” 


2l6 


Walter. 


The woman did not speak while Lucy was 
reading the hymn ; but when she had finished 
she said : “ That is just the sweetest hymn to 
me, because I can understand it best, from 
knowing all about how Mr. Charles Wesley 
wrote it, and what he was thinking about. He 
was riding in a carriage one day — my husband 
was with him, driving — when all at once they 
saw a hawk flying after* a poor little sparrow. 
The sparrow was in such a fright that it flew 
into the breast of Mr. Wesley’s coat and 
nestled there ; and we, who know him, know 
how tenderly he would cherish and hide it 
from the cruel hawk.” 

“ What a pretty story ! ” said Lucy. 

“A story, ma’am ! it’s the truth ; it really 
happened. My husband saw it,” protested 
Mrs. Watts ; “ and it made Mr. Charles write 
that hymn about Jesus being the * Lover’ and 
* Refuge ’ of our helpless souls, helpless as that 
poor sparrow; but just as sure of finding a 
home and hiding-place in the bosom of Jesus 
as the poor bird was of finding a shelter from 
the hawk in Mr. Wesley’s coat.” 

Whether it were true, or only a fable, it was 
a parable Lucy could understand, and she be- 
gan to feel that she was like that poor, tired 
bird, longing for a refuge, longing for a resting- 


Prejudice Conquered. 217 

place from the weariness that pursued her 
every-where, turn which way she would. She 
had drank of the cup the world calls pleasure, 
and, though sweet enough at first, it had palled 
upon her lips now, and she was ready to turn 
from it in disgust, if only she knew where to 
turn ; for the homage paid to her had never 
satisfied the vague craving of her soul. She 
had always been trying to stifle this, in order 
to enjoy herself as others did, and she often 
wondered how many other gay beauties, fre- 
quenting the pump rooms and assemblies at 
Bath and London, carried an empty, longing 
heart as well as herself. 

She had time to think now, and as she lay 
on the little bed, from which she could not be 
moved yet, the first verse of the hymn she had 
learned became a prayer upon her lips, and 
she would pray : 

“ Let me to thy bosom fly ; 

Hide me, O my Saviour, hide.” 

But then would come the thought, how could 
she ever dare to use these words, “ My Sav- 
iour;” for had she not despised and turned 
her back upon Walter, because he chose to 
follow this Saviour, and serve him instead of 
serving the world and himself? No, no ; she 
was too unworthy; Christ could never shelter 


218 


Walter. 


such unworthiness as hers ; and for a few days 
Lucy was in despair, and the doctor was in 
fear of a relapse, for the restless unhappiness 
brought on feverish symptoms which he was 
at a loss to account for, but which he tried to 
subdue by bleeding — the favorite remedy for 
all sorts of disorders, according to the leech- 
craft of those days. 

Mrs. Watts, however, had a keen suspicion 
of what was going on in Lucy’s mind, and, 
without at all betraying her suspicion, she con- 
trived to lead the conversation to the subject 
of the hymn they had first talked about, and 
the readiness of Christ to receive all who came 
to him humbly believing that he was able and 
willing to save. 

“ The little bird did not stop, I vow, to 
think whether its feathers had been duly 
cleaned, before flying to the protection of Mr. 
Charles’s coat; but just dropped its tired 
wings, and nestled into the only refuge it saw ; 
and that is just what the Lord Jesus is waiting 
for us to do. He don’t want us to stop think- 
ing about ourselves. He knows we are sin- 
ners, for whom he died, on purpose that he 
might be able to shelter us ; and so, dear 
madam, it is our own fault if we stay away and 
the world devour us.” 


Prejudice Conquered . 219 

Perhaps if Lucy had been a poor woman, 
like herself, Mrs. Watts would have been more 
eager to make her a convert to Methodism ; 
but she was one of the quality — one of the 
class Mr. Wesley had no wish to attract to his 
Society. His mission was to the poor and out- 
cast ; they received the gospel gladly ; but the 
rich — well, they had souls to save, of course ; 
but their riches were such a snare, and so hard 
to be given up, with all that they brought in 
their train, that he felt it was periling the very 
existence of Methodism, strong as it was, to 
invite the rich to join it. 

“ Methodism,” he said, “ is only plain script- 
ural religion, guarded by a few prudential reg- 
ulations. The essence of it is holiness of heart 
and life, and if ever these essential parts shall 
evaporate, what remains will be dung and dross. 
I fear wherever riches have increased the es- 
sence of religion has decreased in the same 
proportion ; for as riches increase, so will pride, 
anger, and love of the world.” The only safe- 
guard against this, Mr. Wesley saw, was in 
giving the money away as it accumulated ; 
for the members of his Society, as a natural 
consequence of frugality, self-denial, and in- 
dustry, grew wealthy, in spite of their founder’s 
precaution ngt to invite the wealthy to join, 


220 


Walter. 


Mrs. Watts, who knew all this, was very 
careful, therefore, not to say a word to Lucy 
about joining the Methodists. The Lord Je- 
sus Christ would receive and welcome her, she 
had no doubt about that ; but if she were 
proposed to any class-leader, the rules, strin- 
gent enough for all, would be tightened, rath- 
er than relaxed, in the case of such a doubtful 
convert ; and so Mrs. Watts talked of the duty 
of attending all the services of the Church 
and every means of grace ; but not one word 
about their own prayer-meetings and class- 
meetings. 

It rather puzzled Lucy — this reticence of 
her hostess ; for she knew she was not ashamed 
of being known as a Methodist — nay, the 
name was beginning to compel something like 
respect for those who bore it ; for to be a 
Methodist was tantamount to saying the man 
was honest, industrious, frugal, a kind hus- 
band and careful father, and generally a rising 
man — a quality the world always respects and 
pays court to, whatever may be the fate of the 
other virtues. So the world was beginning to 
respect the Methodists, at least that portion of it 
that embraced the sober, gteady-going, thought- 
ful classes. The fashionable fops and dandies, 
the elite of Bath and Cheltenham, the world in 


Prejudice Conquered . 


221 


which Lucy lived, moved, and had her being, 
of course, still despised them. They sneered 
and jeered at every thing serious, and nothing 
but the airiest whims and trifles were worthy 
of a moment’s consideration, according to their 
dictum; and this was the world Lucy would 
be plunged into when she left her Methodist 
friends at Peckington. 

Yes, Lucy regarded them as friends, and 
looked up to gentle, unassuming Mrs. Watts, 
and listened to her stories of Mr. Wesley, and 
scraps of sermons preached by his “ helper,’* 
Mr. Francis Asbury, until she got to think she 
must know them both herself — Asbury es- 
pecially; for he was stationed here in Peck- 
ington just now, and Lucy heard a good many 
of his sermons second-hand. 

But the time Lucy had secretly dreaded 
came at last, and could not be further post- 
poned. She was well enough to leave her 
bed, and must at once return to the Hall, and 
from thence she was to go to Cheltenham in a 
few weeks. Lucy dreaded it, for she feared 
this plunge into the whirl of fashionable life 
again would rob her of all her new-found peace 
and joy; and she had tasted sweet peace — 
“ the peace of God which passeth all under- 
standing.” She could hope and believe that 


222 


Walter. 


her sins, though many, were all forgiven — that 
her sin-stained soul had been washed in the 
precious blood of Christ, and she was resolved 
to walk henceforth as his faithful soldier and 
servant. But how? This was the question 
that began to puzzle Lucy before she left 
Peckington, and continued to puzzle her; for 
her path of duty was by no means as clear as 
Walter’s had been — at least, she did not think 
it was. 

Mrs. Watts had given her the hymn book 
that so often lay on her sick-bed, and this 
seemed the only tie that bound her to the 
Methodists. She wished Mrs. Watts had 
brought Francis Asbury to see her, of invited 
her to join their Society; it would have made 
things so much easier for her. But now she 
was like a boat tossing alone on the wild 
waves of doubt and perplexity, not knowing 
what to do beyond this, that she might and 
ought to go to God in prayer for guidance and 
direction. This she did, and God was leading 
her into the true way of service, although she 
knew it not. 

If Lucy had only heard a little of the talk 
going on in the kitchen a few days after her 
return, she would have felt a little comforted 
as well as amused. 


Prejudice Conquered . 223 

“ I tell thee, Molly, she is going to die, or 
has turned Methody,” said one of the house- 
maids, bouncing into the kitchen. 

“ Who are you talking about ? ” asked 
Molly. 

“ Mistress Lucy, to be sure. I’ve just been 
to take her a bunch of flowers the gardener 
had cut, and she thanked me that meek-like 
that I stared at her like a fooL” 

“Ah, that I’ll vow you did/' retorted Molly; 
“but I’ll thank you to leave waiting upon my 
young lady to me, if you please. I don’t want 
you to do my work.” 

“ It isn’t so long ago, though, since you was 
glad of any body that would do your work and 
save you from a rasping of Mistress Lucy’s 
sharp tongue. She do have a sharp tongue ; 
no one can deny that.” 

“Yes, I can,” said Molly; “for I’ll say this 
for her, that she don’t speak a sharp word now 
not once a month.” 

“There, isn’t that what I say — this 'meek- 
ness and quietness isn’t natural. She’s either 
a Methody or going to die ; I can’t tell 
which.” 

“ I can, though ; it’s neither one nor t’other,” 
said Molly in an offended tone ; for it was an 
insult in her eyes to call her mistress a Meth- 


224 


Walter. 


odist, however good they might be. Method- 
ism was all very well in its way, for such 
people as Mrs. Watts, for instance, or even 
respectable folks like farmers and clothwork- 
ers, as well as colliers and quarrymen, but for 
gentlefolks it was ridiculous, disgraceful ; and 
Molly took up the cudgels of argument on her 
mistress’ behalf, and wielded them right man- 
fully. There was nothing she would not do 
for Mistress Lucy now. It was a pleasure 
to serve her and anticipate her wants ; and 
Molly, while she loudly declared her mistress 
was no Methodist, exclaimed in the next 
breath that it would do some other folks no 
harm if they were ill and shut up in the house 
of a Methodist, provided they would learn 
their lessons as well as her young mistress 
had done. 

Lucy’s secret dread of going to Cheltenham 
was at last imparted to the doctor ; and if he 
guessed at the true cause lying at the bottom 
of this dread he prudently kept it to himself, 
and at once said the fatigue of such a journey 
would be very injurious to her in her present 
weak state, and that change of air nearer home, 
and at a quieter place, would be far more bene- 
ficial. He therefore recommended Olney or 
its neighborhood to Dame Mary. 


Prejudice Conquered . 225 

“And what is there at Olney, pray?” asked 
that lady with some temper. “ I cannot exist 
in a quiet country place, and that you ought 
to know, doctor.” 

“ I do know it, madam ; but, however well it 
may suit you to go to Bath or Cheltenham, it 
will not do for your sister just now. No, no ; 
let her go to Olney and make the acquaint- 
ance of my friend, William Cowper, and see 
his hares, and walk in his garden. It will do 
her ten times more good than all the mineral 
waters in the kingdom.” 

“ Well, if you order it, doctor, of course she 
must go ; but it will be mighty inconvenient, 
and may spoil all Lucy’s prospects for life. 
She is nearly twenty-six, you know, doctor, 
and ought to have been established long ago, 
with her beauty. I was married years before 
I was as old as Lucy.” 

“ I believe you were, madam, but you see 
some ladies are hard to please. We are not 
all alike.” 

“ Now, doctor, pray, don’t you uphold Lucy 
in that nonsense ; for that is just the stuff she 
is always tajking. Not alike, indeed! I should 
^like to know who can be more alike than sis- 
ters.” 

“ Well, well, madam, it is a matter of 


226 


Walter. 


opinion,” said the doctor cautiously, but 
taking care to add, “ The sooner my patient 
goes to Olney the sooner she will be off my 
hands.” 

“ Very well, doctor, she shall go,” said Dame 
Mary, but feeling as though she would like to 
shake him for ordering it. 


The Poet of Olney . 


227 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE POET OF OLNEY. 

HE doctor kept his word, and went to 



Olney to see his patient, and visit his old 
friend, the poet, shortly after Lucy arrived 
there ; and he took care to introduce the 
two to each other, for Lucy was able to go 
out for short walks, and had already been to 
church to hear Mr. Newton, as she told the 
doctor. 

“Ah, yes, I have heard of Mr. Newton. Few 
men have had such a wonderful experience as 
he has. He went to sea when he was about 
twelve, I believe, having lost his mother, a 
godly woman, who did all she could for her 
boy as long as she lived, but whose lessons 
seemed all in vain for years ; for the lad was 
wicked even for a sailor, they say. I have 
heard all this from my friend Cowper who 
had it from the parson himself,” went on the 
doctor, who dearly loved gossip, and wanted 
Lucy to become interested in her surround- 
ings here — that being as good as medicine to 
her just now, according to his notion. 


228 


Walter. 


“Mr. Newton a wicked man!” exclaimed 
Lucy; “why, I never heard any one preach 
such sermons, unless it was Mr. Whitefield 
himself.” 

“Ah, just so — learned the trick of White- 
field, I dare say ; for he is as much a Method- 
ist parson as Venn himself, who is hand and 
glove with Wesley, and preaches for the Meth- 
odists as much as he does in his own parish at 
Huddersfield. Newton here got his religion 
from Whitefield, when he had taken a cargo 
of slaves to America.” 

“ Do you mean to say that Mr. Newton was 
a slave-dealer ? ” said Lucy opening her eyes 
wide in surprise. 

“Ah, that he was, and a slave, too, before 
that. He was taken prisoner by the Turks, 
I believe, and sold into Barbary, and treated 
as bad as we treat the blackamoors. I can’t 
say it was worse ; for we ought to be ashamed 
of ourselves, if all I hear is true about it.” 

“What do you think about that, doctor?” 
asked Lucy. “ Do you think it is right to 
kidnap men and women, and hold them in 
bondage?” 

“ Well, my dear lady, they are black,” said 
the doctor meditatively, rubbing his bald 
head. 


229 


The Poet of Olney . 

Lucy laughed. “ Does the color give us the 
right?” she asked. “The Turks and Barbary 
pirates would say they had a right to enslave 
us because our people were white, I suppose.” 

“Well, well, I don’t know; I suppose they 
would. But how are we to get on without 
slaves ? How are the plantations to be 
worked ? ” 

“ By free labor, I should think. Would it 
not be possible to stop the slave-trade and free 
the people who are in the plantations now, 
giving them wages for their work, as we do 
other laborers?” 

“Impossible, quite impossible, my dear lady. 
I don’t say it would not be right to do it; but, 
bless me ! it would turn the country upside 
down, and we should have the planters cut- 
ting our throats for robbing them ; for it would 
be robbery now, don’t you see? for these la- 
borers are as much their property as the cows 
and horses, and far more valuable.” 

“ Cows and horses ! ” repeated Lucy. “ But 
these people have souls to save. I never 
thought about it in this way until the other 
day, when Mrs. Watts told me Mr. Wesley had 
baptized some converted negroes at Wands- 
worth, about ten years ago — it was in 1758, 
I think — I remember the date, because I 
15 


230 


Walter. 


thought it was something that ought to be 
remembered, for negroes to be received as 
Methodists;” and as she spoke a faint flush 
stole into the beautiful pale face, and a troub- 
led look came into the calm, gray eyes ; for 
Lucy had a painful feeling about this : she 
could not divest her mind of the suspicion 
that she was deemed unworthy of admit- 
tance to this Society of believers, and that, 
in this particular, negroes were preferred be- 
fore her. 

“ And so Wesley has baptized some of the 
blackamoors. Well, I never heard of it be- 
fore,” said the doctor; “but maybe they are 
not much worse than the slave-traders them- 
selves ; for, by all accounts, they are just 
about as bad as men can be. Our good friend, 
Newton, here can tell you something about 
the horrors of this infamous traffic, for he does 
not spare himself.” 

“ And he met with Mr. Whitefield, you 
say?” 

“ Yes, met him somewhere out in America, 
and has been a changed man ever since. His 
mother’s prayers are answered now ; for she 
prayed that he might be a good man every 
day of her life, but she did not live to see 
her prayers answered. It may comfort some 


The Poet of Olney. 231 

others who pray, but seem to pray in vain, to 
hear John Newton’s story, and how the blas- 
pheming sailor and slave-dealer became a true 
Christian and a devoted servant of God ; for 
there are few parsons in these parts that work 
as hard in their parishes as my friend, New- 
ton.” 

Lucy was surprised to find the doctor knew 
so much about the village and its gossip, and 
the doings of the parson ; but it seemed that 
the chatty doctor often acted as a medium 
between his friend Cowper, who lived almost 
as a recluse here in Olney, and the outside 
world. He brought him friends where he 
thought the mutual contact would be bene- 
ficial to both, and contrived to keep away 
others who would have jarred upon the sensi- 
tive mind and nerves of his poet friend, who 
yet became the almoner of many who were 
wealthy, in virtue of his kindness and sympa- 
thy with the poor. 

Lucy was one of the favored few welcomed 
to the poet’s house and garden, where she 
often met Mr. Newton ; for these two, so op- 
posite in temperament and almost every par- 
ticular, were poet-brothers in Christ. The 
strong, stalwart, hard-working, energetic par- 
son could pray: 


232 


Walter. 


“ Quiet, Lord, my froward heart, 

Make me teachable and mild ; 

Upright, simple, free from art, 

Make me as a weaned child, 

From distrust and envy free, 

Pleased with all that pleases thee. 

“ What thou shalt to-day provide, 

Let me as a child receive ; 

What to-morrow may betide, 

Calmly to thy wisdom leave ; 

’Tis enough that thou wilt care ; 

Why should I the burden bear ? 

“ As a little child relies 

On a care beyond his own — 

Knows he’s neither strong nor wise — 

Fears to stir a step alone, 

Let me thus with thee abide, 

As my Father, Guard, and Guide.” 

The gentle, child -like, sensitive Cowper, 
when free from the religious melancholy that, 
more than once in his life-time, amounted to 
insanity, was portrayed in this hymn, while 
he, the desponding, doubting soul, sang the 
triumphant strain : — 

“Though vine nor fig-tree neither 
Their wonted fruit should bear ; 

Though all the fields should wither, 

Nor flocks nor herds be there; 

Yet God the same abiding, 

His praise shall tune my voice ; 

For while in him confiding, 

I cannot but rejoice.” 


233 


The Poet of Olney. 

Cowper, too, was proving himself the friend 
of the slave by denouncing the slave-trade in 
the second part of a poem he was writing, 
which he had called “ The Task,” because 
Lady Austen had asked him to write some 
blank verse, and playfully given him the 
“Sofa” as the subject. Walking in the gar- 
den at the back of Mr. Unwin’s house, where 
Cowper was a boarder, and which was looked 
upon as the poet’s peculiar domain, he and 
Lucy had many a pleasant discussion upon 
this topic, and she would tell him what she 
had heard from Walter about Benezet, and 
Sandiford, and Woolman, and their protest 
against slavery. Sometimes Mr. Newton would 
join them, or they would meet at the rectory, 
where many a pleasant and profitable hour 
was spent. 

But this happy season of retirement from 
the w r orld of fashionable frivolity came to an 
end, and Lucy was reluctantly compelled to 
return home and meet the houseful of com- 
pany her sister had brought with her from 
Cheltenham. 

There was little peace for her now — little 
time for reading, and meditation, and singing 
softly, to herself, the sweet Methodist hymns, 
which were among her choicest treasures. 


234 


Walter. 


For the first few days there was a continuous 
flutter and bustle in choosing and fitting new 
dresses, caps, and shoes ; for Dame Mary de- 
clared that Lucy’s illness had made her more 
beautiful than ever, and she was determined 
that she should make a brilliant match before 
another three months was over her head. Mr. 
Harewood was in Parliament again, and they 
would go to London about November, and it 
would be convenient to have the wedding 
there. 

Lucy stared and shook her head laughing- 
ly, declaring she did not want to be married ; 
but she soon found that her sister was in 
earnest, and that she was expected to receive 
the attentions of a Sir Charles Pringle, who 
had danced attendance upon Dame Mary 
during her recent stay at Cheltenham, and 
was expected to arrive at the Hall in a few 
days. 

Lucy knew not what to do. She did not 
want to offend her sister, for she had a sharp 
tongue and a sharper temper, and was apt to 
remind Lucy that she was only a beggar, if 
she ventured to cross her will too much ; and 
so, for peace’ sake, Lucy resolved to say noth- 
ing about her religious scruples at present, but 
to ward off the attentions of the baronet, and 


235 


The Poet of Olney . 

steal up to her room for a little quiet reading 
whenever she had the chance. 

But Dame Mary knew something had hap- 
pened, and suspected a Methodist taint, for 
that only could account for Lucy’s quietness 
and compliance with most of her suggestions 
and arrangements in the matter of dress ; for, 
though her sister had ventured to say she 
would like less finery and a rather neater 
dress, Mary had at once stopped the innova- 
tion, and Lucy had yielded without provoking 
a quarrel, which had set her sister wondering 
what could have changed her in this partic- 
ular, as Lucy’s temper had begun to grow un- 
bearable just before the memorable Pecking- 
ton election. 

So when Lucy stole up stairs for a quiet 
half hour in her own room her sister’s eyes 
invariably followed her movements ; and on 
Sunday when she went to church she noticed 
that, instead of yawning and looking about to 
see who was there, she joined devoutly in the 
prayers and Psalms, and listened to the poor, 
prosy sermon as though she expected to un- 
derstand it and profit by it. Of course, all 
this was very annoying, and Dame Mary an- 
swered her sister shortly and snappishly when- 
ever they were by themselves ; but before her 


236 


Walter. 


guests she could not be other than sweetly 
amiable, for there was nothing in Lucy she 
could reasonably find* fault with. Lucy was 
distantly polite to Sir Charles Pringle, gentle 
and winning to her sister’s guests whom she 
knew intimately, and sedulously attentive to 
Dame Mary herself, studying her comfort and 
convenience — even her whims and fancies, 
wherever she could — but still firm in her re- 
solve to go to church every Sunday, and have 
a little quiet time in her own room, where she 
could brace herself for the battle she had to 
fight ; for it was no easy task for Lucy to 
curb the temper that had well-nigh mastered 
her, and there was a daily, hourly conflict go- 
ing on in her heart that no one suspected. It 
was hard work to carry on the battle without 
any help or sympathy from Christian friends ; 
to fight day after day silently and alone, with 
strength weakening and courage failing for 
want of that feeling of brotherhood and fel- 
lowship which the Church, as a Society, can 
give. Mr. Wesley knew this, and wisely pro- 
vided for such a want by the establishment 
of class-meetings and bands, by which every 
member, numerous as the Society was, could 
be known individually to a few friends, at 
least ; and this constant helping and strength- 


237 


The Poet of Olney . 

ening of each other, in a time when the temp- 
tations of the world were so great, and the 
state of religion generally so lifeless, must 
have proved of incalculable benefit to thou- 
sands who, by this means alone, could be kept 
from falling away through their natural weak- 
ness and the circumstances by which they were 
surrounded. 

But poor Lucy had no such help as this. 
The Methodists did not want her — would not 
have her, as she thought with some bitterness 
now ; and then she recalled the humble Peck- 
ington household, where she had stayed, and 
how Methodist friends would drop in now 
and again, to chat over the sermon, or say a 
word in season to each other about the worries 
of life, to say nothing of the prayer-meetings 
and class-meetings that bridged over the gap 
from Sunday to Sunday. There was nothing 
of this for poor Lucy ; and who can wonder 
that her strength began to fail? Her prayers 
grew cold and hurried when she went up to 
bed tired and weary, and her attendance at 
Church, though regular still, soon drifted into 
a mere formal service. 

As her religion grew cold Sir Charles Pringle 
grew more attentive. He was not a mere 
fashionable dandy ; he had brains and could 


Walter. 


238 

use them, and, though a baronet, chose to dress 
plainer than most of his class, which, it must 
be confessed, was a great recommendation in 
Lucy’s eyes. Sir Charles’ simple periwig was 
neither so long or luxuriant as many a herds- 
man’s. He wore a close-fitting blue coat of 
superfine broadcloth, with frog buttons, and 
braiding of the same color, an embroidered 
French satin vest, coming a little below the 
waist, lighter blue breeches, fastened at the 
knee with buttons and bunches of ribbon, 
black silk clocked stockings likewise, of French 
manufacture, and silver-buckled shoes. Al- 
together Sir Charles was the most neatly dressed 
man in the company now assembled at the 
Hall, and if the man would have borne com- 
parison with his clothes, there would have 
been little to find fault with. If he had been 
content with his French vest and hose, Sir 
Charles Pringle might have been a better man ; 
but he had spent some years of his life at 
Paris, and almost all the philosophical and liter- 
ary writers of the city, at that time, were avowed 
infidels ; the grand object of all their efforts was 
to load religion with obloquy or turn it into 
ridicule ; and it was among these men that Sir 
Charles had moved, and he had been gradually 
led to throw off the principles and faith of his 


239 


The Poet of Olney. 

forefathers, and declare, with Montesquieu, 
Voltaire, and their followers, that there was no 
God. But he was too wary to talk of this in- 
discriminately here in England, and especially 
in the society of ladies. Superstition was fit 
for women, and really added to the charms of 
some — Lucy now, for instance, with her calm, 
statuesque beauty. Her habit of going to church 
and joining so reverently in the service, made 
her all the more attractive to Sir Charles. 

He paid an instinctive homage to the pure, 
undefiled religion that made Lucy kind and 
civil to servants as well as guests, even while 
he called it superstitious nonsense. 

Not to Lucy, however, did he ever betray his 
sentiments in this fashion. If ever he were 
forced to speak before her, he did it with the 
utmost respect, except in the case of priests 
and fanatics ; but he avoided the subject al- 
together as much as he could, especially when 
he was with Lucy herself, and, try as she would, 
she could never draw him into talking about 
what was the dearest interest in life to her 
now. But Sir Charles knew how to talk upon 
other subjects, and Lucy enjoyed listening, and 
before he had been long at the Hall the two 
had drifted into an engagement, how, Lucy 
never could tell ; for although Sir Charles was 


240 


Walter. 


a sensible man, and superior to most men, she 
certainly did not care enough for him to make 
her wish to marry him ; but Mary said they 
would make an excellent couple, they were so 
exactly suited to each other. Besides, Sir 
Charles was so wealthy, and had such a splen- 
did estate in a neighboring county, that it was 
altogether so convenient and desirable that 
Lucy was talked into acquiescence, although 
she expressly stipulated that a longer period 
should elapse before her marriage than her 
sister thought either needful or safe under the 
circumstances. 

“ It is so foolish of you, Lucy, not to agree 
to our wishes. Sir Charles is as anxious for a 
speedy marriage as I am. I cannot think why 
you want to postpone it until next year,” said 
Dame Mary petulantly. 

“ I want to know more of Sir Charles and 
more of myself before — ” 

“ Now, Lucy, don’t talk nonsense ; I vow I 
shall whip you if I hear any more,” interrupted 
her sister. “Any other girl but you would be 
glad to take the man now, and not give him a 
chance to alter his mind.” 

“ But I may want to alter mine,” said Lucy, 
“ and it is only fair we should both have the 
same chance.” 


The Poet of Olney. 


241 


Dame Mary stared at her sister in blank 
amazement, while a look of slow-gathering, 
fierce anger burned in her face. “ If you 
dare to do such a thing, Lucy, I will turn you 
out of doors,” she said slowly, but with bitter 
emphasis, and then, without another word, she 
marched out of the room. 


242 


Walter. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

OVERCOME. 

HE preparations for Lucy’s wedding were 



-L very soon commenced, in spite of her re- 
monstrance, Mary saying it would be con- 
venient to do it while they were in London, 
whither they migrated about November, to 
commence another round of gayety, under the 
excuse of parliamentary duties. 

Sir Charles did not follow them at once, but 
went to his own estate, to superintend some 
alterations he intended to make in the house 
and furniture preparatory to taking home his 
bride ; and Dame Mary improved this oppor- 
tunity for worrying her sister by making the 
poor girl’s life as miserable as she could. 
Sometimes she escaped to Clapham, where her 
sister Bessie was now living, but it was not 
often she was allowed even this liberty; for 
Mary seemed bent upon showing her how dis- 
agreeable and tyrannical she could be, so that 
it was really a relief when Sir Charles came to 
town and renewed his visits and attentions, 
which put an end to Dame Mary’s tyranny. 


Overcome . 


243 


Christmas came and went, and the dull 
days of January and February, and the wed- 
ding began to be talked of again ; for every 
thing in the way of dress was in readiness, and 
Dame Mary announced that it must take place 
in April. She would wait no longer ; and Lucy 
gave her consent, for it would be a relief to 
get away from Mary and her sharp, scolding 
tongue. She had begun, also, t<^be dazzled 
again with the flattery and homage paid to her 
in the gay world, and as eager in the pursuit 
of it as ever. So she plunged into the vortex 
of theater-going, and balls, and routs, hurrying 
from one pleasure to another, as anxious now 
to banish all recollections of Olney and Peck- 
ington as ever her sister had been. 

The wedding-day was fixed for the twelfth of 
April ; but on the tenth came a letter from 
Walter — a long, loving letter, in answer to one 
written to him when Lucy was recovering from 
her illness at Peckington, in which she had 
told him of her new-born hopes and desires, 
and how greatly she longed to become a Meth- 
odist, too. 

The reply had been written immediately aft- 
er this letter was received, and Walter had 
poured out all his soul and the joy of his heart, 
telling his sister how he had prayed, and 


244 


Walter. 


hoped, and expected to hear this news, and 
that he should come back to England very 
soon on a visit ; then they would be able to re- 
joice together and pour out their souls’ thanks- 
giving to God. The letter was a long one, 
and went on to tell her how a little company 
of Methodists had just been formed in New 
York, under the leadership of Philip Embury, 
an Irish local preacher, and Captain Webb, the 
barrack-master of the garrison at Albany, who 
had once preached at Bristol for Mr. Wesley, 
shortly after the battle of Quebec, where he 
had lost an eye. The brave soldier had 
preached in New York in his uniform, and the 
novelty of a soldier-parson had attracted such 
numbers that a large room had been taken to 
accommodate the increasing congregation ; and 
they were now trying to get funds together to 
build a regular meeting-house, while at the 
same time letters had been sent to Mr. Wes- 
ley ; and Walter was coming over to explain 
more fully about this providential beginning 
of Methodism in America, and ask Mr. Wesley 
to send them more preachers to the multi- 
tudes, who were as sheep without a shepherd. 

Lucy read the letter, but only half compre- 
hended it, the latter part especially. Only 
two facts could she understand about it — Wal- 


Overcome. 


245 

ter thought she was a Methodist, and he was 
coming home to see her. 

“ Coming home to see me ! ” repeated Lucy 
with a half-dazed expression, and looking down 
at the gay dress in which she was attired; and 
the next minute she covered her face with her 
hands and burst into tears. Her feeling of 
misery increased as the hours of the day went 
on, for conscience had been awakened by Wal- 
ter’s letter ; and she shut herself up in her own 
room, refusing to open the door or see any one, 
pleading as an excuse that she was not well, 
and wanted to be quiet. 

Dame Mary at last threatened to break the 
door open if she did not unlock it, reminding 
her that she had promised to meet Sir Charles 
Pringle at the doors of the assembly room, 
where they were going to a ball, and that her 
chair would be round in half an hour. 

“ Very well, I will be ready ; you may send 
Molly to me,” said Lucy, feeling almost desper- 
ate, and despairingly praying, “ O Lord, help 
me ! Lord Jesus, help a vile sinner to escape ! ” 
Molly dressed her young mistress in a sky- 
blue satin dress, embroidered round the edge 
with a wreath of water-lilies and green leaves. 
It was open down the front, showing her stom- 
acher adorned with seed-pearls, and a quilted 
16 


Walter. 


246 

petticoat of white satin. High-heeled crimson 
velvet shoes, with pearl-adorned buckles, and 
a head-dress of feathers, pearls, and flowers, 
completed Lucy’s attire. 

Dame Mary was going to the ball as well, 
but they could not occupy the same chair — 
their extensive hooped skirts preventing that 
— and never did Lucy feel more grateful to her 
hoops than she did to-night. The bearers had 
just lifted her sister’s chair as Lucy appeared, 
her fan hanging on her arm, and her mittens 
drawn up to her elbows. Molly covered her 
with a cloak, and followed her to the sedan- 
chair, vaguely anxious about her young mis- 
tress, and telling the men to keep Dame Mary’s 
chair in sight, and follow it closely. 

“All right,” called the men as they lifted 
the poles, and the linkboy in attendance ran 
on to light the way, and shout “Chair, chair;” 
for the streets were dark and the roads were 
rutty, and locomotion consequently slow and 
often dangerous. 

There were frequent stoppages as they 
neared the more crowded thoroughfares, but 
Lucy did not mind. She was in no hurry 
to meet Sir Charles Pringle to-night, for she 
had formed the desperate resolve of telling Sir 
Charles she could not marry him, and she felt 





/ 



A Strange Visitor to the Meeting-house. 




















Overcome . 


249 


by no means equal to the attempt yet. A 
short distance from the assembly-rooms there 
was a longer stoppage than usual, for a coach 
had been overturned in the narrow roadway, 
and the chair was set down while the bearers 
joined the crowd who were gathered near. 
They were opposite an alley, about half-way 
down which was an oil lamp, and on the 
glass was written “ Methodist meeting-house.” 
Lucy stared at it for a minute, and then looked 
out of the door of her chair. Neither of the 
men were in sight. She quietly slipped out 
and ran down the alley, forgetful of her finery 
and the shock she was likely to give the good 
people assembled for prayer and praise, who 
hardly knew that there- was such a world as 
Lucy lived in. They were kneeling in prayer 
when the door was flung open, and panting, 
frightened, Lucy screamed, “ O save me, save 
me ; take me in, and let me be a Methodist ! ” 
Let her be a Methodist ! The primly 
dressed matrons and maidens sitting together 
on one side of the room turned their heads 
and looked at her, and then at each other, in 
amazed horror. The preacher, standing at the 
plain deal desk, lifted his eyes, and thought 
they must have deceived him for once ; for 
such a vision had never been seen in any re- 


250 


Walter. 


spectable meeting-house before. Lucy had 
paused about the middle of the room, stand- 
ing immediately under the central lamp, and 
looking with eager, anxious gaze all round her, 
the beautiful troubled face showing an agony 
of pleading in this mute appeal. Fortunately, 
Mr. John Wesley himself was present, to the 
evident relief of the assembly, who were at a 
loss what to think of such an unheard-of cir- 
cumstance, and certainly would not know how 
to act. 

The prayer had been abruptly concluded, 
and Mr. Wesley rose amid a breathless silence, 
and went to meet their strange visitor. 

“ What do you desire, madam ? ” he asked, 
looking at her keenly. 

His look seemed to bring back Lucy's scat- 
tered senses, and she dropped at his feet, 
buried her face in her hands, and burst into 
tears, sobbing, “ O save me, save me ! don’t 
drive me back to the world again, or I shall 
be lost — lost ! ” 

Mr. Wesley himself looked puzzled, but he 
felt convinced this lady was sincere — that she 
was what she appeared to be ; and the natural 
kindness and tenderness of his heart forbade 
his treating her as a mere intruder; and so, 
with an exquisite courtesy that no court gallant 


Overcome. 


251 


could have rivaled — because in Mr. Wesley it 
was the natural outcome of a tender heart — 
he led her to a little vestry at the back of the 
chapel, beckoning to one or two friends sitting 
at the table to follow him and hear what she 
had to say. 

One of these had sat looking at their strange 
visitor, and now he was scarcely less agitated 
than herself. “ Are you not Mistress Lucy 
Maxwell ? ” he said, pressing forward and 
speaking to her before she reached the vestry 
door. 

Lucy lifted her head quietly at the sound 
of the long-familiar voice. “Yes, yes; and 
you are Horace — Horace Golding. O, save 
me, for Walter’s sake! You knew and loved 
him.” 

“ Do you know this lady, Brother Golding?” 
asked Mr. Wesley, a little puzzled at the cler- 
gyman’s agitation. 

“We — we are old friends,” gasped Horace, 
taking Lucy’s hand ; and then he hurried on 
to explain that the letters just received from 
America had been sent by this lady’s brother, 
and that it was his old friend, Walter Maxwell, 
who was coming to plead the cause of America 
at the next Conference. 

But, of course, to explain Lucy’s strange 


252 


Walter. 


proceeding was beyond the power of Horace 
Golding, and so he listened, in wondering, 
anxious joy, while she told of her illness at the 
Methodist household in Peckington, of her joy 
and peace in believing, and her disappointment 
that Mrs. Watts did not invite her to join the 
Methodists. Then came the story of disap- 
pointed hopes and broken resolutions, ending 
with her promise to marry Sir Charles Pringle, 
whom she now had good cause to fear v/as an 
atheist. The spell under which she had lived 
for the last few months had been broken by a 
letter received from her brother in America, 
and now she desired that she might be re- 
ceived as a Methodist, and helped to fight the 
battle before her. 

“ But what of this gallant you are to marry, 
madam?” said Mr. Wesley rather curiously. 

“ I will not marry him — will not see him 
again,” said Lucy. 

“ Lucy, do you love him ? ” asked Horace 
anxiously. 

“ I — I don’t know. He has been kind when 
Mary was unkind ; but, O ! it will be a relief 
never to see him again now. Horace, you will 
ask Mr. Wesley to receive me as a Methodist. 
I know I am unworthy; that I have broken 
all the good resolutions I made at Olney, and 


Overcome. 


253 


have deeply sinned against God ; but if you 
would let me become a Methodist I could be- 
gin again with better hope for the future.” 

Mr. Wesley glanced at the flowered satin 
robe, and the daintily-slippered feet, and for 
a minute his heart was hardened against her 
pleading, as he said, “ Methodists are but a 
company of believers banded together for mu- 
tual support and encpuragement in the service 
of God. We hold no charms — no patent pass- 
port to heaven. Our rule of life is hard for the 
rich and luxurious, and we seek not such to 
join our Society.” 

“ But you will not refuse those whom God 
has called, although they are weak and un- 
worthy. You baptized some negroes once. I 
do not say I am worthy as they, but, O ! as 
you took the negroes don’t refuse me.” 

No one could resist this appeal — certainly 
not Mr. John Wesley; and the touching hu- 
mility of this beautiful, accomplished woman 
placing herself on a level with negroes, broke 
down all his scruples; and, after prayer to- 
gether, it was agreed that Mr. Golding should 
take Lucy home, and that if she remained in 
the same mind until the following day she 
should be received into the Society, with all 
the privileges of a beloved 'sifter in Christ, 


254 


Walter. 


But at the time this was done she would have 
to enter into a solemn covenant with God, not 
only in heart but by word of mouth, and in 
a written declaration, vowing to become the 
covenant servant of God, in body, soul, and 
spirit, until death. 

Lucy shrank, at first, from promising to en- 
ter into such a solemn engagement. “ I am 
so weak and sinful ! ” she pleaded. “ I have 
broken such good resolutions before.’* 

“ It is no light thing to break promises made 
between the soul and God,” said Mr. Wesley; 
“ it hardens the heart and sears the conscience ; 
and it is because of this that we make the act 
as solemn as possible, that we may be deterred 
from such painful backslidings, and fly to God 
upon the first motions of sin.” 

So it was agreed that Lucy should come 
to the class-meeting, which would assemble 
there the following evening, and have her 
name enrolled on the books of the Society; and 
then Horace Golding prepared to escort her 
home. Lucy now, for the first time, seemed 
conscious of the incongruity of her dress, and 
remembered that she had left her cloak in the 
chair when she fled down the alley. They 
did not wait for the congregation to disperse, 
but Horace took care to screen her from the 


Overcome . 


255 


curious eyes of the women as they passed 
down to the door; and never did beggar feel 
so ashamed of her rags as poor Lucy did of 
her elegant satin robe and feather-decked hair. 

He left her in the shelter of the door-way, 
while he ran to the end of the alley to see if 
the chair that had been sent for was in readi- 
ness, and then hurried her into it as quickly as 
possible, for fear any passer-by should see the 
fashionable lady leaving the Methodist chapel ; 
for this would cause no small scandal in such 
a scandal-loving age as that was. 

Horace Golding saw her safely to the chair ; 
the chairmen looking first at him, then at Lu- 
cy, and then at the lamp over the meeting- 
house, evidently at a loss to account for the 
phenomenon. 

“ I shall call upon you to-morrow morning,” 
said Horace, as he bade her good-night. And 
these words first awoke in Lucy the remem- 
brance of her sister, and what she might expect 
when Mary knew that she was determined to 
bid Sir Charles farewell. But she felt nerved 
for the battle, and, come what might, she would 
bear it patiently as her just punishment ; for 
had she not so weakly yielded and tried to 
hide her religion, she would not so soon have 
fallen into worldliness and sin. Lucy had lit- 


256 


Walter. 


tie pity for herself — far less than Mr. Wesley 
and Horace Golding had for her ; for as the 
two walked home together that night Horace 
told Mr. Wesley a good deal about his former 
playmate, and her obstinate prejudice against 
the Methodists, and also of her dependence 
upon her worldly-minded sister. When he sat 
alone in his own room he thought of Lucy’s 
future, and wondered how she would act and 
what she would do if her sister should cast her 
off ; for, although he knew nothing of Mary’s 
threat, he believed her to be quite capable of 
doing this. 

Meanwhile Lucy had reached home, very 
much to the surprise of the servants, who were 
not expecting her or their mistress, Dame 
Mary, for several hours. Molly was greatly 
alarmed when she heard her mistress’ voice, 
although she was assuring the butler that noth- 
ing had happened — she was not hurt, and she 
was going straight to her own room. Her 
maid flew to meet her, asking if she was not 
ill, if Sir Charles had brought her home, and 
if she should send for the doctor. 

“ No, no, Molly; I am tired and want to go 
to bed,” she said ; and then, feeling it would be 
a relief to tell her faithful maid something of 
what had happened, she added, “ I have been 


Overcome. 257 

to chapel to-night, Molly, and I am now a 
Methodist.” 

“A Methodist ! ” repeated Molly, when she 
could recover sufficiently from her astonish- 
ment to be able to speak; “you a Method- 
ist ! ” And she looked at her elegantly attired 
mistress until Lucy felt inclined to laugh, weary 
and unhappy as she was. 

“Now, Molly, help me to undress, and then 
fold these things up carefully and put them 
away; I shall never wear them again.” Molly 
nodded and did as she was told, but evidently 
had her own opinion about that matter, which 
she did not disclose to her mistress. She said 
little beyond hurrying the lady to get into 
bed before Dame Mary and Sir Charles should 
arrive in search of her; for she saw that she 
was not fit for an encounter with her angry 
sister just now, and resolved to keep her away 
from the room if possible. She had scareely 
left it herself when there came a loud rat-a-tat 
at the street door, and the next moment Dame 
Mary’s voice was heard inquiring for Mistress 
Lucy. Looking over the banister, Molly could 
see Sir Charles behind her, his white satin knee- 
breeches and embroidered coat gleamingin the 
lamp-light. 

“ How long has your mistress been home, 


258 


Walter. 


Molly ? ” said the lady, pushing her way 
through the hall. 

“ Not long, madam. I fear she must be ill, 
for she went instantly to bed, desiring that no 
one might disturb her.” 

“ Disturb her, indeed ! She cares little how 
much she disturbs other folks. Is she hurt? 
Was the chair overturned ?” asked Dame 
Mary. 

“ I think not, madam.” 

“ Then why did she come home ? She is 
treating Sir Charles shamefully, and I will not 
have it ! ” and she pushed past Molly and went 
to Lucy’s room, where she found her sitting 
at the table, with an open Bible before her and 
the traces of recent tears on her face. 

The sight almost paralyzed Dame Mary, 
and she stood at the door as if turned to stone; 
but at last she managed to hiss out : “ So you 
sent your maid to me with a lie, thinking to 
escape my anger ? ” and she snatched away the 
Bible and threw it to the other end of the 
room. “There,” she exclaimed, “as I have 
thrown your book, I will throw you out of 
this house ! I have suspected some vile Meth- 
odist plot for weeks past, but I will frustrate 
it yet ; no one ever crossed my will with impu- 
nity, and you shall not leave this room until 


Overcome. 


259 


you leave to be married ; and if Sir Charles 
likes you to be a Methodist when ygu are his 
wife, you may be one, but you sha’n’t before.” 
Saying this, Dame Mary went out of the room, 
locking the door behind her. 


26 o 


Walter. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A METHODIST AT LAST. 

D AME M ARY had flung down Lucy’s can- 
dle, as well as her Bible, and tinder-box, 
flint and steel were not to be found. Those 
were not the days of lucifer matches, when a 
candle could be lighted at a moment’s notice ; 
so that further reading was impossible for that 
night, and Lucy felt it equally impossible to 
sleep. She kneeled down to pray, but her 
heart was so full of inward upbraidings for the 
past and misgivings for the future that she 
gained but little comfort ; and at last she rose 
from her knees and sat down by the window, 
thinking bitterly over the last few months, and 
how her pride and prejudice had betrayed her 
into this forgetfulness of God, and made the 
task before her far harder now than it would 
have been at first. O this blind, foolish preju- 
dice that she had fostered and encouraged ! 
what had she not lost through it ? But for this 
she and Walter might together have walked in 
the ways of God, lived in the old home, carried 
on the foundry, and helped the struggling cause 


A Methodist at Last. 


261 


of Methodism at Lipscombe. They might 
together have cheered and brightened the last 
days of their mother and father, instead of 
making them unhappy. Lucy saw it all now. 
The dear old folks were changed during the lat- 
ter years of their life, and theirs might have 
been a happy Christian household if she and 
Mary had not constantly roused their antipa- 
thy to the Methodists, and to Walter because 
he was a Methodist. True, Mary had to an- 
swer for a great deal ; but Mary would have 
been almost powerless under the combined in- 
fluence of herself and Walter, and the positive 
leaning her father had toward the Methodists 
during the latter part of his life. Most deeply 
had she sinned, and all she might suffer would 
be but a just punishment, which she must bear 
patiently and bravely for Christ’s sake. 

Mary would be more angry now than she 
would have been last year if she had boldly told 
her of her change of principle as soon as she 
came from Olney. Of course, she would have 
been vexed and angry then ; but things were 
much more complicated now, and she had good 
cause for anger in the dismissal of Sir Charles 
Pringle, now that things were prepared for the 
wedding, and all their friends had been made 
acquainted with the brilliant match she had 


262 


Walter. 


made. If she had not been so afraid of being 
called a Methodist — if she had boldly come 
forward and asked Mrs. Watts to tell her how 
she might become a Methodist — if her former 
prejudice had not made her feel afraid of own- 
ing that her opinions had changed — all might 
have been so different now. The battle would 
have been fought out with little more than she 
had already endured, and would have been 
over by this time ; but now it was all to begin, 
and the work would be ten times harder, and 
it might be that her sister would carry out her 
threat and turn her out of doors, penniless 
and helpless. It was best to prepare her mind 
for the worst contingency that could happen, 
and be prepared to meet it as far as possible. 
She looked all difficulties straight in the face, 
and then kneeled down and spread her trouble 
before the Lord, feeling she was utterly help- 
less, but praying that his strength might be 
made perfect in her weakness, and that she 
might be kept from so shamefully denying her 
Lord again. 

Then she crept into bed, calmed and com- 
forted, feeling happier than she had been for 
months, in spite of her perplexity and the diffi- 
culty that hedged her in on every side. The 
thought of doing any thing for her own sup- 


A Methodist at Last . 263 

port never crossed Lucy’s mind. Those were 
not the days when women were expected to 
do any thing or be any thing but expensive 
ornaments to society, taking their opinions 
second-hand from fathers and husbands ; mak- 
ing exemplary wives and daughters, but always 
with something of an exotic air about them — 
quite unable to bear the rough wind of the 
outside world to blow upon them. So Lucy 
had no idea of any life but one of dependence 
upon her sister’s will ; and if Mary turned her 
out, she hoped Bessie would take her in, to 
help her bring up her growing family of boys 
and girls. This was the refuge Lucy had 
thought of and planned for herself if the worst 
came to the worst ; but she thought it was just 
possible Mary would hesitate at actually turn- 
ing her out of doors, for fear of what the world 
should say about it. 

When Molly came to her room the next 
morning she said Dame Mary had given her 
orders to lock the door when she went out, 
and carry the key to her again. 

“ Very well, Molly. You must obey orders,” 
said Lucy quietly ; “ but tell my sister I should 
like to see Sir Charles when he comes.” 

“ To be sure, Mistress Lucy ; and I think 
Dame Harewood will be pleased to hear it, for 
17 


Walter. 


264 

she is afraid you will refuse to see him,” said 
Molly, in a confidential tone. 

“ No ; I want to see him,” said Lucy. “ I 
behaved very rudely last night, and owe him 
an apology. So tell my sister I should like to 
see him if he calls to-day.” 

The message lost none of its importance 
from Molly’s carrying it, and Dame Mary made 
up her mind from Molly’s report that her sis- 
ter had “ come to her senses again ; ” and so 
when Sir Charles was announced, an hour or 
two later, he was shown to the drawing-room 
and Lucy released from her own room, Dame 
Mary resolving to leave them alone to settle 
the affair, but to step in at the conclusion of 
the conference to make sure Lucy was not 
playing her any trick. 

Shortly after Sir Charles Pringle’s arrival 
Horace Golding called, but was refused admis- 
sion when he sent his name to Dame Harewood, 
and an insulting message was sent, telling him 
not to try and inveigle Mistress Lucy Max- 
well into low haunts and Methodist chapels 
again, or her husband would probably find 
some means of chastising his presumption. 
The clergyman knew not what to make of this 
message, especially as he heard that his old 
friend was sitting with her lover ; and he went 


A Methodist at Last . 265 

away feeling grieved and hurt, but still retain- 
ing his faith in Lucy. 

Meanwhile she was laying before Sir Charles 
Pringle the whole state of the case, avowing 
that she was a Methodist in heart, and would 
shortly be received into the Society and pledged 
to follow their rules. But, to her dismay, she 
found that the baronet would not accept this 
as an insuperable barrier to their union. 

“ Y ou shall be free to choose your own re- 
ligion, Lucy, for I expect the same freedom 
myself,” he said. “ I like to see women have 
some religion,” he added ; “ it suits their soft- 
ness, and adds to their charms ; so pray dis- 
miss all fear on that account. We shall agree — ” 

“ No, no ; it is impossible,” hastily inter- 
rupted Lucy, with heightened color. “ You — 
you do not believe in the existence of God at 
all. I have heard you say so.” 

“ And what then, Mistress Lucy ? My faith 
or unbelief can affect no one but myself, if I 
do not try to force it upon you ; and I tell you 
I like a little religion in women, so that it is 
not vulgar fanaticism,” said the gentleman in 
a slightly offended tone. 

She raised her head and looked at him. “ I 
am afraid I should be what you call a vulgar 
fanatic,” she said. “ The truth is, I have buried 


266 


Walter. 


my religion since I have known you ; but, 
thank God, it was not quite dead, and by his 
help I will never try to hide it any more. Sir 
Charles, it is impossible that I can marry you. 
Pray forgive me for any pain I may have caused 
you, for the lightness with which I may seem 
to have treated you. I am very, very much 
to blame, for I ought to have known — I did 
know — that a marriage between two people so 
opposite as we are was quite impossible.” 

“ But I do not admit that it is impossible,” 
said the gentleman hotly. “ I am willing to 
take you, whatever your religion may be. You 
would grace any faith, Lucy,” he added. 

“ Hush, hush,” she said. “ You do not un- 
derstand these things. I have been a dishonor 
to religion, but by God’s help I will seek to 
adorn the service of God in future by a life of 
humble obedience to his will ; but how can I 
ask, how can I expect any help from you, when 
you do not even believe in the God I worship ?” 

“ Lucy, your religion shall suffice for both 
of us. I do believe in it as a beautiful myth.” 

“ A myth ! ” repeated Lucy. “ The divine 
realities of God, and heaven, and the soul’s 
eternal destinies, only a beautiful myth ! ” and 
Lucy covered her face with her hands, and had 
a hard struggle to keep back her tears ; for it 


A Methodist at Last . 


267 


seemed so inexpressibly awful that a man like 
Sir Charles Pringle — a sensible, refined, cultured 
gentleman — should dwell in this outer darkness 
of unbelief. 

There was silence for a minute or two, the 
gentleman pacing the room with rapid strides. 
“ I cannot bring myself to think as you do,” 
he said. 

“ I fear not,” said Lucy ; “ and our paths in 
life must separate from to-day. Sir Charles, 
I must bid you farewell,” and she rose and 
held out her hand, not coldly, but with such 
a sad, serious look in her beautiful face that 
Sir Charles vowed in his heart he would not 
give her up. He took her hand and held it in 
a warm grasp. 

“ You do not think I am to be got rid of so 
easily, do you ? ” he sa : d. 

“ O, Sir Charles, do pray believe I am in 
earnest, and do not make my lot harder by 
vexing my sister more than is necessary. Let 
me go now, and tell my sister, if you can, that 
there is to be no wedding to-morrow.” 

But Sir Charles would not agree to this. 
With an inconsistency not at all uncommon, 
the more he saw of the depth and reality of 
Lucy’s faith the more he respected and loved 
her ; but he agreed to a postponement of the 


268 


Walter. 


wedding, and promised to see Dame Ilare- 
wood and acquaint her with this, so as to 
screen Lucy as much as possible from her an- 
ger. He sincerely pitied the poor girl, and 
tried hard to make her alter her determina- 
tion ; but finding it useless, and that Lucy only 
persisted in her assertion that the wedding 
could never take place, he resolved to make 
the best of things ; and when Mary came in, all 
smiles and honeyed words, he politely ex- 
plained that he was obliged to go abroad for 
six months, and that he must leave his bride 
in her sister’s care until he returned. 

Dame Mary was dumbfounded at such an 
unlooked-for announcement, and while she was 
expressing her surprise Lucy made her escape, 
deeply grateful for the magnanimity Sir 
Charles had shown, yet wishing he had not so 
persistently construed her refusal into a mere 
postponement of the wedding, for it was but 
putting off the evil day ; and, after all, she did 
not wholly escape her sister’s anger, despite 
the baronet’s fiction about being called away 
on important business, for Lucy told her sis- 
ter the truth when she came to her for an ex- 
planation after Sir Charles had gone. Of 
course there was a storm, and Dame Mary de- 
clared her sister should be Lady Pringle in 


A Methodist at Last . 269 

spite of every thing — a threat Lucy knew she 
would carry out if possible. 

Then followed the bustle of sending notes 
and messages to all the wedding guests, fol- 
lowed by a packing up of the finery again, in 
the midst of which Lucy made her escape to 
the little Methodist meeting-house, where she 
was thankful to see her old friend, Horace 
Golding. He was the curate of a suburban 
parish, and often contrived to be present at 
some of the Methodist meetings ; and so it 
was not at all remarkable that he should be 
here again, especially as a new member was to 
be admitted and the regular minister was away 
just now. It devolved, therefore, upon Horace 
to explain to the new candidate that the only 
condition required in those seeking admission 
to the Society called Methodists was “a desire 
to flee from the wrath to come, and to be saved 
from their sins,” and that proof of this being 
sincere must be given “ by avoiding evil of 
every kind, especially that which is most gen- 
erally practiced ; such as 

“ Taking the name of God in vain. 

“ Profaning the day of the Lord. 

“Buying, selling, or drinking spirituous liq- 
uors. 

“ Buying or selling uncustomed goods, 


270 


Walter. 


“ Fighting, going to law, rendering evil for 
evil, using many words in buying or selling. 

“ Uncharitable or unprofitable conversation. 

“ Giving or taking things on usury. 

“ The putting on of gold or costly apparel. 

“ The taking such diversions as cannot be 
used in the name of the Lord Jesus. 

“ Singing songs or reading books which do 
not tend to the knowledge and love of God. 

“ Softness, and needless self-indulgence. 

“ Laying up treasures upon earth. 

“ Borrowing without a probability of paying. 

“ Moreover, it is expected of all members of 
this Society, that they should continue to evi- 
dence their desire of salvation — 

“ By doing good ; by being in every kind 
merciful after their power, and, as far as is pos- 
sible, to all men : to their bodies, by feeding the 
hungry, clothing the naked, visiting or helping 
them that are sick or in prison : to their souls, 
by instructing, reproving, or exhorting all they 
have any intercourse with. 

“ By doing good, especially to them that 
are of the household of faith, employing them 
preferably to others ; buying one of another ; 
helping each other in business, and so much 
the more because the world will love its own 
and them only. 


A Methodist at Last . 


271 

“ By all possible diligence and frugality, that 
the gospel be not blamed. 

“ By running with patience the race set before 
them, denying themselves, and taking up their 
cross daily; submitting to bear the reproach 
of Christ, to be as the filth and offs'couring of 
the world ; and looking that men should say 
all manner of evil of them falsely for the Lord’s 
sake. 

“ By attending all the ordinances of God, 
such as — 

“ The public worship of God. 

“ The ministry of the word, either read or 
expounded. 

“ The supper of the Lord. 

“Family and private prayer. 

“ Searching the Scriptures. 

“ Fasting or abstinence during all Fridays 
of the year. 

“ These are the general rules of the Socie- 
ty ; all which we are taught of God to observe 
even in his written word, the only rule, and 
the sufficient rule, of our faith and practice. 
And all these we know his Spirit writes on 
every truly awakened heart. If there be any 
among us who observe them not, who habit- 
ually break any of them, let it be made known 
unto them who watch over that soul, as they 


272 


Walter. 


that must give an account. We will admonish 
him of the error of his ways. We will bear 
with him for a season. But then if he repent 
not, he hath no more place among us. We 
have delivered our own souls.” 

A copy of these rules, signed by John and 
Charles Wesley, was given to Lucy, and after 
the reading of them she was formally asked by 
Horace Golding if she would observe and keep 
them all, God helping her, unto her life’s end ; 
to which a faint response of “Yes” was given, 
although, as she said it, Lucy felt she was ut- 
terly unable to do it of herself; for some of 
them would be very hard for a lady of fashion, 
reared in the lap of luxury and self-indulgence, 
to keep. 

Custom in the matter of dress, conversation, 
amusements, eating and drinking, would have 
to be set aside, and the disciple, if she would 
follow her Lord and keep the rules here laid 
down, must make herself the target for any 
poor wit, or ridicule, or scorn, taking all as 
quietly as though it were deserved. Lucy 
knew that she would meet with contumely 
and reproach, and every species of drawing- 
room persecution, even if more active means 
were not used to induce her to give up her 
religion. 


A Methodist at Last. 


273 


Then Lucy was naturally, artistically, fond 
of dress — bright, cherry-colored ribbons flut- 
tering about her; dainty bronze and velvet 
shoes, setting off her tiny foot ; and elegant 
fans dangling from her wrist. But all these 
must be given up now : and Lucy wondered 
as she went home whether she had a dress 
that could, by any possibility, be transformed 
to the Quaker-like costume of her Methodist 
sisters, one or two of whom had ventured to 
shake hands with her, and one had whispered 
about her gaudy attire, although to Lucy it 
was not gaudy, but the neatest dress in her 
wardrobe. But those were not the days of 
neat dresses, but of hoops, and brocaded silks, 
and bright colors, the gentlemen outdoing the 
ladies in their butterfly appointments, and all 
vying with each other in the extravagances 
of fashion. It was well that some protest 
should be made in this matter of dress ; and 
John Wesley had begun it years before, and 
inculcated upon his followers the duty and ne- 
cessity of doing it still — for this extravagance 
was the ruin of many and the curse of the age, 
which needed to be brought back to some- 
thing of the soberness of Puritan times. 

Of course, Molly’s help had to be sought at 
once in this matter of dress, and Lucy was 


274 


Walter. 


forced to tell her maid she had joined the So- 
ciety she had so often heard her deride ; and 
the rules also inculcated that she should “ ex- 
hort, and reprove, and instruct ” all who came 
within her influence, and so it seemed that 
Molly was especially that person, and Lucy 
tried to speak a word in season. 

To her surprise Molly burst into tears, and 
sobbed out, “ O Mistress Lucy, if you had but 
taken the trouble to say a word like this when 
we first came home from Teckington last year 
I might have been a different girl; but it is too 
late now.” 

Lucy looked alarmed. “ Too late, Molly; 
what do you mean ? ” she asked. “ It is never 
too late to repent.” 

“ I’m not so sure about that,” sobbed Molly. 
“ I believe I did repent when I was at Peck- 
ington, and I meant to live a new life, too ; 
I really did mean it, and I thought every day 
you would say something about it, and then 
I should have asked you if you minded me 
joining the Methodists.” 

“ O Molly, if you felt like that, why did you 
not tell me? You should not have waited for 
me to speak first.” 

“ Perhaps not, ma’am ; but as you were my 
mistress, and had been thinking something 


A Methodist at Last . 275 

like me, I thought it was not my place to 
speak first.” 

“ O Molly, forgive me if I have wronged 
you, too!” said Lucy with a burst of tears, and 
mistress and maid mingled their weeping, 
bitterly regretting the past, until Lucy said, 
“ Come, Molly, we will kneel down and pray 
together, and we may be able to help each 
other yet — God may let us repair something of 
our past foolishness and forgetfulness of him.” 


276 


Walter. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE. 

ICY had a hard fight with her sister, es- 



-I— pecially in the matter of dress ; but the 
fight with herself was even harder. Little 
did Dame Mary think that the plain ribbon- 
less caps that she laughed at, calling Lucy a 
serving-wench, and suggesting that she had 
made a mistake in coming to the drawing-room 
in such a cap and gown, and that her place 
was in the kitchen — little did she dream, how 
hateful it was to Lucy to see herself arrayed 
in a plain, cheap dress; for, according to the 
rules of the Methodists, she could not make 
it costly, as a Quaker’s ; for Mr. Wesley de- 
nounced the fine linen and rich silk which they 
often wore as being mischievous and extrava- 
gant in spite of its primness. 

To escape from her sister Mary’s gibes and 
jeers Lucy often went to the Clapham house- 
hold, where it was not noticed so much; for 
there were several families of Methodists, set- 
tlers in this neighborhood, and their example 
was insensibly influencing their near neighbors 


William Wilberforce. 277 

in the matter of dress, so that a neater style 
of fashion prevailed here. 

Bessie was intimate with one or two well- 
to-do families in the neighborhood and at Wim- 
bledon, and she did not mind taking Lucy 
with her ; for, in spite of her plain stuff gown 
and hoopless skirts, she looked every inch a 
lady, and there was a sweetness and gentle- 
ness in her beautiful face that made people 
forget the ugly cap and gown, and children 
especially were drawn to her. 

There was a little lad about ten years old 
staying at one of these Wimbledon homes, with 
whom Lucy became a great favorite. He was 
a delicate, diminutive boy, almost deformed 
in figure, but with a face beautiful as Lucy’s 
own, and a voice of touching sweetness. 

“ This is my nephew, William Wilberforce,” 
said their hostess one day, leading the little 
boy to Lucy. He looked up shyly at the 
beautiful, gracious lady, who dressed as plainly 
as his Methodist aunt — for plain dress was as 
remarkable to little William as it was to Dame 
Mary; but he loved his aunt, and felt sure he 
should like her beautiful visitor. 

The child was in mourning, having just lost 
his father, one of the wealthiest merchants 
of Hull, and this little boy had come to live 


Walter. 


278 

at open, breezy Wimbledon, for the benefit of 
his health. His aunt was very anxious about 
the little fellow. “ It is not that I fear he is go- 
ing to die,” she said ; “ but this may be his only 
chance of learning how to live. His mother 
is a gay, fashionable. lady, and will not let us 
keep him long, I am afraid, for fear he should 
become a Methodist ; and the dear child’s 
mind seems to open so readily to receive relig- 
ious impressions that I pray God may direct 
me how to deal with this immortal soul, that 
some lessons he learns here may remain with 
him through life, even though he is again 
plunged into a world that lieth in wickedness.” 

This was confided to Lucy when they were 
by themselves, with whom the lady felt far 
more sympathy than with her sister, and in- 
vited her to come and spend a week at her 
house — an invitation gladly accepted by Lucy, 
as affording her a pleasant respite from Mary’s 
persecution. 

As Lucy was on her way to Wimbledon to 
pay this visit the coach in which she was rid- 
ing was suddenly brought to a stand-still 
in a narrow street through which they were 
passing, and, looking out, Lucy saw a crowd 
collected, and asked the coachman what had 
happened. 


William Wilbcrforce. 279 

“ Only a black man fell down. I’ll ride over 
them all directly,” said the man in an angry 
tone. 

“ No, no, wait a minute. I will go and see 
what it is,” said Lucy; for she suddenly remem- 
bered her uncle’s negro, poor Tim, and how 
helpless he would have been in this busy world 
of London. So she stepped from her coach 
and pushed her way among the crowd, the 
people making way for the “ Methodist lady ” 
quite as readily as they would for the fashion- 
able one — more so, perhaps — for a whisper ran 
through the mob : “ She will help him — she 
will help the poor wretch.” 

It was a poor old negro, white-headed and 
worn to a skeleton with hard work and hard 
fare, turned out by his master to die in the 
streets, now that he could no longer work. It 
was such a common tale that many of the 
crowd turned away without another thought ; 
but Lucy would not, dare not, do this. As a 
Methodist she was bound to help him, even if 
her heart had not melted at the sight of the 
poor old man, and she turned to some of the 
bystanders, asking if they could not take him 
to a decent lodging. “ I will pay the cost,” 
said Lucy, “ if you will only take him some- 
where and send for a doctor at once.” 

18 


28 o 


Walter. 


“ I will take him, madam,” said a poorly 
dressed woman. “ I would have offered be- 
fore ; but times are so hard with me now that 
I can hardly get enough to eat for myself; but 
if you will see that the poor fellow has a bit of 
food, I can do the nursing.” 

“ Thank you,” said Lucy, and she slipped 
some money into the woman’s hand, and asked 
her where she lived, giving directions that a 
doctor should be sent for to see the poor old 
negro at once. He was soon carried after the 
woman who had volunteered to nurse him, and 
Lucy went back to her coach, thinking much 
of the inhuman conduct of the man’s master, 
and wondering whether it would ever be pos- 
sible to put an end to this odious slave-trade. 

When she reached Wimbledon she told her 
friends of her adventure, and elicited their 
sympathy on behalf of the poor old negro ; but 
little William Wilberforce seemed most deeply 
moved. He forgot his shyness in his anxiety 
to hear all Lucy had to say about the poor old 
man, and asked questions about the slaves and 
their treatment at the plantations, that sound- 
ed quaint and old-fashioned indeed, coming 
from such baby lips ; for, owing to his peculiar 
deformity and delicate appearance, he looked 
much younger than he really was. 


William Wilber force. 281 

To please him it was agreed that the old 
man should be sent for to Wimbledon as soon 
as he got better, and, if able to work, he might 
make himself useful about the garden, attend 
the little boy in his rambles about the com- 
mon, and occupy a small room over the 
stable. 

“ But he will not be a slave, aunt, will he ? ” 
asked the little boy. “I should not like to 
have a slave,” he added. 

“ No, my dear. We will pay him wages, as 
we do Dick Allen,” said his aunt. 

Lucy then gave him a full account of what 
she had heard from Walter about the Quaker 
minister, Woolman, refusing the hospitality of 
those who held slaves, and Benezet writing 
his tract against the slave-trade, and Cowper 
his poem. 

“ I will write about it, too,” said the boy ; 
“ and when I get a man, and go to Parliament, 
I will ask them to make a law and stop the 
dreadful slave-trade.” 

“Yes, do, William,” said his aunt smiling; 
“ and if your law should be passed hundreds 
of poor negroes will bless my little nephew, 
William Wilberforce. You will always be my 
little nephew, I am afraid, dear ; but I have 
heard a verse good Dr. Watts wrote about be- 


2 82 


Walter. 


ing a little man, and I hope you will not for- 
get it : 

“ ‘ Were I so tall to reach the pole, 

Or grasp the ocean in my span, 

I must be measured by my soul, 

The mind’s the standard of the man.’ ” 

The little boy repeated the last line : “ The 
mind’s the standard of the man.” “ Then it 
will not matter much if I am not as tall as 
Dick Allen,” he said. 

His aunt smiled. “ You will never be as tall 
as Dick,” she said ; “ but you can be a much 
greater man, if you are only a good man.” 
And then she turned to Lucy and told her 
something of her hopes concerning this little 
nephew, and how she believed he would be capa- 
ble of doing almost anything he attempted ; for 
tasks were learned and ideas grasped so quick- 
ly and retained so strongly that, added to the 
natural sweetness of his disposition, and capac- 
ity for enjoying to the full almost every thing 
that came in his way, these gifts, with the 
immense wealth he would by and by possess, 
must make him a power for good or evil in the 
world. It was his aunt’s constant prayer that 
his life might be devoted to the service of 
God. 

“ But I am afraid for him,” she said, as her 


William Wilber force. 283 

eyes followed him from the window, for she 
had sent him to play in the garden while she 
had a little quiet talk with her friend. “ I am 
afraid his mother will not let us keep him long, 
for in a letter I had from her yesterday she 
said she hoped William was not learning Meth- 
odist ways — she is so afraid of his being a 
Methodist, which is all I desire for him.” 

“ I can quite understand your anxiety, mad- 
am, and you may be sure your labor for him 
will not be in vain. He is a sweet little fellow, 
and seems to drink in all one can teach him 
about the ways of God and the love of God ; 
in this he differs very much from my little 
nephews and nieces.” 

“ He is different from most children, and I 
often think he is a child of grace, which is a 
great comfort to me ; for if he is one of God's 
chosen — one of the elect — nothing that his 
mother can do to draw him into the world of 
fashion can prevail against the Spirit of God.” 

The lady was a follower of Whitefield, and 
found her doctrine of election very comforting 
in this instance. Lucy knew little or nothing 
of theological differences, but she was quite 
ready to assent to her friend’s proposition, and 
told her what she had heard about Mr. New- 
ton, the curate of Olney, and how his mother’s 


Walter. 


284 

prayers had been answered, though for a time 
it had seemed that they were utterly for- 
gotten. 

“ Yes, I have heard of Mr. Newton from my 
friend, Mr. Golding, and the Rev. Mr. Venn 
— not all you have told me, my dear — but of 
his earnest and Christian work, and how, like 
Mr. Whitefield, he is never weary in his Mas- 
ter’s service.” 

“ Do you know Horace — Mr. Golding? ” said 
Lucy, in some surprise. 

“ To be sure we do. Godly men are not plen- 
tiful as blackberries, that we can afford to let 
little differences of opinion separate us. Mr. 
Golding follows Mr. Wesley in his belief, and I 
follow my teacher, Mr. Whitefield, but we all 
follow Christ and serve him ; so that I cannot 
see, as some good people do, that I ought to re- 
nounce the friendship of those who differ from 
me in Christian faith.” 

“ What is this difference ? ” asked Lucy, for 
she had never heard of the contest waged, and 
shortly to be re-opened, on this theological 
battle-field. But there was no time to ex- 
plain, for some other friends were announced, 
and very soon Lucy was listening to a discus- 
sion upon a very different subject ; but one 
that made her heart beat quicker, and brought 


William Wilberforce. 285 

back her mind to the old days in the summer 
parlor at home. 

“ The fellow is a hard-headed Scotchman, 
and firmly believes wheels can be made to turn 
by steam. He has been working and improv- 
ing upon a model of Newcomen’s steam-pump 
for years; but he is poor, and only saved just 
money enough to take out a patent for his 
steam-engine, which is made only large enough 
to try the idea fairly.” The speaker was a tall, 
capable-looking gentleman, with very little of 
the dandy about him. It was astonishing how 
few dandies found their way to Clapham or 
Wimbledon. Every body that one met here 
was earnest about something, and more than 
half were Methodists, Lucy found, although 
they might not actually acknowledge it. The 
gentleman spoken to was listening as eagerly 
as Lucy to his friend’s account of the steam- 
engine, and asked how he had heard of it. 
The tall gentleman responded : 

“ I have been obliged to go to Glasgow up- 
on business — went to see some friends at the 
University — and while there had the good 
fortune, or bad fortune, to break my specta- 
cles, and was recommended to James Watt, 

Mathematical Instrument-Maker to the Col- 

% 

lege, I wonder whether the wprld will ever 


286 


Walter. 


hear of my odd little spectacle-mender. To 
look at he is the last person in the world to 
expect such a thing of ; but this is an age of 
surprises, and no one knows when the next 
will turn up, or who is to give it you — so it is 
well to be on the lookout.” 

“And do you really think wheels can be 
made to turn by steam ? ” said Lucy. “ My 
brother had the same idea some years ago, but 
every body laughed at him for it.” 

“Well, I suppose they did, and doubtless 
my little Scotchman has been laughed at, too ; 
but they could not laugh him out of the idea, 
and I believe he has got to the root of the 
matter, too.” 

“ What do you call the root of the matter, 
Mason ? ” asked his friend. “ We know you 
are not afraid of taking up new ideas.” 

“ Well, this certainly is a new idea, and 
whether it comes to any thing or not, James 
Watt is the first 1 have heard of who has de- 
fined steam as being an elastic vapor, capable 
of expansion when once let loose, but of com- 
pression when confined.” 

“ I don’t see any thing very wonderful in 
that,” said his friend, after a minute’s thought- 
ful pause. “ It’s true enough ; every body 
knows thq,t who thinks at all.” 


William Wilber force. 2$ 7 

“Yes, yes; it’s true enough, we know ; but 
who ever thought about it long enough or 
deep enough to grasp the idea until James 
Watt gave it birth ? It came out of a tea- 
kettle, I believe,” he added, laughing, and tak- 
ing little William Wilberforce on his knee as 
he spoke. “ We are talking about a Scotch- 
man who is going to be a great man some 
day,” he said, speaking to the child. He 
was a little delicate, shy boy, like you, they tell 
me ; but he was very industrious and very fond 
of learning, and now clever men like to go into 
his dark little shop and talk to him about 
botany, and astronomy, and every subject 
learned men like to talk about ; for James 
Watt, though a poor man who has had to work 
for his living all his life, understands so many 
things that he has taught himself that he can 
often teach others who have had many more 
advantages.” 

“ Aunt prays to God to make me a good 
man, and I’m trying to be good now, and 
by and by perhaps he will let me be a great 
man. Do you think he will ? ” asked the lit- 
tle boy. 

“ What do you mean to do for the world, 
my little fellow ? The Scotchman I am tell- 
ing about says he can make steam turn wheels, 


288 


Walter. 


and if he can the world will say he is great, 
for no one has been able to do that before.” 

“ I don’t care much about wheels and steam 
and things ; I like people best,” said young 
Wilberforce. “ I want to do something like 
Mistress Lucy Maxwell did this morning ; she 
saved a poor old blackamoor from dying in 
the street.” 

“ And you want to save wornout negroes. 
Well, it is about as wild a scheme as any one 
could think of,” laughed his friend. 

“ O, but I sha’n’t wait until they all get old ; 
I shall try and stop the slave-trade,” said the 
little boy seriously. 

The gentleman patted his head, and laughed 
again. “ I am afraid people will do more than 
laugh at you if ever you try to do that,” he 
said. “ Why, my little lad, you might as well 
try to push this house down with your two 
little hands as to try to abolish the slave- 
trade.” 

“ But it’s wrong — it’s a wicked trade ; my 
aunt says so,” persisted the boy ; “ and she 
says that God will take all the wickedness 
away, a little bit at a time, and we are to help 
him do it ; and, if he will let me, I shall help 
him with the slaves.” 

There was another laugh among the guests 


William Wilber force. 289 

at the gravely comical air with which this was 
said, but William Wilberforce did not laugh ; 
he only said still more seriously, “ I do mean 
to try.” 

“ God help you, or any body else that ever 
begins such an unequal struggle as that, my 
lad. The end will be more doubtful, I think, 
than my new friend’s steam project.” 

“ Then the man really is going to build an 
engine? ” said another interested listener. 

“ Yes ; he has worked hard, taking every 
little odd job that came in his way that he 
might save money enough to do this ; for he 
reckons it will cost a thousand pounds to build 
such an engine as he needs to give his idea a 
fair trial, and a thousand pounds is a large 
fortune to a working man like him ; but he has 
scraped it together by dint of hard work and 
living like a church mouse ; so we may hear of 
Watt’s steam engine yet.” 

“ What a fool the fellow must be to spend 
his hard-earned money in such a mad way ! 
How much will he gain by it ? ” 

“ I never asked him, and I fancy James 
Watt has never thought much about gain for 
himself. The engine has occupied all his 
thoughts, just as saving men and women from 
sin and the wrath to come has cast every other 


290 


Walter. 


thought out of the mind of Wesley and White- 
field.” 

“ But, my dear sir, you would not com- 
pare the vain inventions of your friend to the 
work of godly men saving souls,” hastily in- 
terrupted his hostess. 

“ I do not draw any comparison, madam,” 
said the gentleman politely. “ I only say it is 
the dominant thought of both minds, given 
by God to both, I believe, and before which 
gain or loss is of trifling consequence.” 

“ But — but do I understand you to say that 
you think God may have given this thought 
about steam and the steam-engine ? ” said 
Lucy. 

“ To be sure, my dear lady. We thank God 
in our prayers for our food and clothing, and 
if he gives a man a thought by which these 
can be multiplied and made cheaper and bet- 
ter, why should we not own his hand in it, and 
thank him for it ? Who knows how much this 
steam-engine of Watt’s may help in the spread 
of the Gospel Mr. Wesley preaches ? ” said Mr. 
Mason. 

But several shook their heads. The idea 
was so wild and far-fetched, and savored, 
moreover, of such dangerous doctrine, that no 
one was found to indorse it, or at least to 


William Wilber force. 291 

show that they did ; but to Lucy the thought 
was full of sweetness as well as sadness, for if 
it was true, what this gentleman had said, 
surely God had meant to make Walter his 
servant in some such way as this, but she had 
hindered and thwarted it by her pride and 
prejudice. O, that pride and prejudice ! what 
bitter fruit it had borne ! 


292 


Walter. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

LUCY’S RESCUE. 

W ALTER MAXWELL reached England 
in time for the meeting of Conference, 
and laid before them letters from the little So- 
ciety of Methodists that had just been formed 
in New York. There was also a letter from 
Mr. Thomas Bell, of Charleston, saying, 
“ Mr. Wesley says the first message of the 
preachers is to the lost sheep of England. 
And are there none in America ? They have 
strayed from England into the wild woods 
here, and they are running wild after this 
world. They are drinking their wine in bowls, 
and are jumping and dancing and serving the 
devil in the groves and under the green trees. 
And are not these lost sheep ? And will none 
of the preachers come here ? ” This impas- 
sioned appeal was not to be resisted, and 
Richard Boardman and Joseph Pilmoor vol- 
unteered to go out. It was decided that they 
should sail for Philadelphia, where Captain 
Webb had collected another little company, 
and formed them into a band in connection 


293 


Lucy s Rescue . 

with Philip Embury’s congregation at New 
York. To these, the New York Methodists, a 
present of fifty pounds was to be sent as a 
token of brotherly love, and to clear off the 
debt they had contracted in building their 
meeting-house. Pilmoor was to go to Mary- 
land and Virginia, while Boardman went to 
New York. 

Walter did not return with them, for his 
health had begun to fail, and the frequent at- 
tacks of ague made it almost impossible for 
him to continue his work in America ; but he 
would be able to do a little here in England, 
and it was hoped, with careful home nursing, 
he might be able to return to his former sphere 
of labor after a year or two of rest. 

This was the doctor’s advice, and Mr. Wes- 
ley decided that it must be followed ; but w'ho 
was to give Walter the attention he so much 
needed ? Neither of his sisters, who had homes, 
would undertake the task, and Lucy had con- 
siderable difficulty in seeing him at all except 
by stealth, when she went to the meeting- 
house, where Walter generally contrived to 
meet her. His elder sister’s doors were en- 
tirely closed against him, and Bessie rather 
endured his visits than welcomed them, for 
she looked upon him as little better than a 


294 


Walter. 


madman, who had no right to trouble his 
friends, whom he had disgraced while he ru- 
ined himself; so that Horace Golding’s bach- 
elor home was the only one open to him. 

Horace welcomed his old friend warmly, but 
Horace had neither been a successful man nor 
a saving man. His stipend as a curate was but 
fifty pounds a year, and though he followed 
Mr. Wesley’s rules, drank sage tea, wore the 
plainest clothes, and kept his hair long to save 
the expense of frequent cutting, without either 
powder or pomatum to adorn it, and so con- 
trived to save twenty pounds out of his fifty to 
give to the poor — still he had but small accom- 
modation to offer an invalid. But Walter’s 
condition gave him courage to think of another 
project, that he had long since given up as 
hopeless* It had been decided by the Confer- 
ence to allow the lay preachers a sufficient sum 
from the general fund to provide for the neces- 
sities of themselves and their families while 
they were preaching, and it was only fair that 
Walter should share in this while he recruited 
his strength. Very soon he and Horace were 
calculating whether their united incomes would 
warrant them in asking Lucy to share their 
poverty ; for it would be poverty even then. 

“ I don’t know what to say, what to think. 


Lucy s Rescue . 295 

I have seen too little of Lucy to be able to 
judge whether she is likely to bear such a 
change willingly,” said Walter with a sigh, and 
shivering as he drew nearer to the fire. The 
ague was upon him again. He had not seen 
Lucy for more than a week, and he began to 
doubt whether it could be altogether Mary’s 
fault that he saw her so seldom. 

Horace defended his old friend warmly, but 
he had an unpleasant suspicion, which Walter 
seemed to be quite ignorant of, that Lucy 
would probably make a greater effort to see 
her brother if he were under any other roof 
than his own. She had gone to see the poor 
old negro often enough until death had ter- 
minated his sufferings, and her sister had ob- 
jected to that, as she did to almost every thing 
Lucy proposed now, so that the clergyman 
felt as sure as Walter did that it was not 
wholly Mary’s fault ; but he did not tell his 
friend this. 

“ It seems downright selfish of me to ask 
Lucy to share such poverty as I could offer 
her,” said Horace ; “ for of course you under- 
stand, Walter, that if she came here she could 
only come as my wife.” 

“ As your wife, Brother Golding ! ” ex- 
claimed Walter, for the thought had never 
19 


Walter 


296 

crossed his mind in this shape before. He had 
long ago made up his own mind upon the sub- 
ject of matrimony, and thought his old friend 
had done the same. 

“ Yes, as my wife,” repeated Horace. “ I 
shall never marry any other woman than Lucy. 
I may tell you now that I had given up all 
thoughts of marriage until I knew my old play- 
fellow was a Methodist, and then the old de- 
sire came back again as strong as ever.” 

“ And yet you haven’t asked her ? ” said 
Walter. 

“ How could I ?” replied his friend. “ In 
the first place, she was an utter stranger to 
such poverty as I should have to ask her to 
share.” 

“ What is that to a Methodist ? ” said Wal- 
ter. “ Lucy has given up the pomps and van- 
ities of the world. I can see she does not wear 
ribbons and laces and fine paduasoys now, 
but is content with a grogram gown, like any 
other good woman.” 

“ But, Brother Maxwell, voluntary poverty, 
such as Lucy now practices, and real poverty, 
such as mine, are altogether different. Lucy 
has not to trouble herself about where the next 
meal or the next gown is to come from, and it 
might come to that if she came here,” said the 


Lucy s Rescue . 297 

clergyman, who had evidently been thinking a 
good deal about this matter. 

But Walter was rather indignant at these 
prudential considerations having any weight 
with Methodists. “ Suppose you were in 
doubt about your next meal, what then ? ” he 
demanded. 

“ I could hope in the Lord, as I have done 
many a time before ; but I have no right to ex- 
pose Lucy or any other woman to this risk.” 

“ You are afraid her faith would not stand 
such a test.” 

“ O no, I am not. Lucy has already braved 
what many a man would shrink from, and if 
poverty came upon us unexpectedly in the 
way of duty she would help me to bear it 
cheerfully, I know ; but still, this is different.” 

Walter would not see it, however. “ I be- 
lieve Lucy would be happier here with us than 
living in that splendid prison with Mary,” he 
said. “ She does not say much as to the way 
she is treated, but I know Mary, and her hatred 
of Methodists, and I believe Lucy has more to 
bear than she lets me know. Is there nothing 
else in the way but your poverty, Brother 
Golding? You have not heard that Lucy is 
likely to marry any one else ? ” 

“ Yes, I have,” replied Horace. “ She was 


Walter. 


298 

to have been married the day, or the day after, 
she joined our Society/’ 

“To one of our people?” asked Walter, 
without waiting for his friend to finish his 
account. 

“ No, no, to a wealthy, fashionable baronet, 
one who — ” 

“ Then it was your duty to stop it, brother ; 
for you know that Mr. Wesley holds such mar- 
riages to be a snare of Satan — nay, all marriages 
are, unless contracted between people of our 
own Society, who may be mutually helpful 
to each other. In this I fear you have not 
been faithful, my dear brother,” said the in- 
valid, and then another creeping, shivering fit 
seized him, and he was obliged to stop. 

“ Lucy did not need any interference or help 
of mine, even if I had been willing to give it,” 
said the clergyman when Walter was a little 
better. “ She decided the matter for her- 
self, I believe, and dismissed the gentleman, 
although Dame Mary persists in believing 
that the wedding was but postponed for six 
months, and your other sister talks of Lucy’s 
marriage taking place about the end of the 
year.” 

“ It shall not though, if I can prevent it,” 
said Walter, hotly. “ I will go and see about 


Lucy s Rescue. 299 

Lucy as soon as I am able to get out again, 
and tell her — ” 

“ Not what we have been talking about?” 
interrupted Horace, impatient in his turn. 
“ You may tell her you have heard what Bes- 
sie is talking about, that she is to be married 
to Sir Charles Pringle ; but leave my name 
out of the matter, please.” 

“ But why should I, since you desire to 
make Lucy your wife ? ” 

“ Never mind ; I have my reasons, and do 
pray let me manage my own affairs in this di- 
rection. I should never make a good Mora- 
vian brother, and be content for other people 
— the elders — to choose my wife for me. I 
am hardly a good Methodist in this ; for to my 
mind Mr. Wesley’s notions about such matters 
savor too much of Count Zinzendorf’s, modi- 
fied as they are.” 

“ Well, it always seems a pity that two such 
good men as the German count and our Mr. 
John could not understand each other better. 
Say what you will, if the two Societies were 
one it would be better for Germany, England, 
and the world.” 

“ Well, I don’t know. I wont deny that the 
Moravian Brethren are excellent people, and 
that Mr. John doubtless learned much from 


300 


Walter. 


them ; but how could one Society be ruled by 
two kings? We are glad to submit to Mr. 
John’s rule, but he could not submit to the 
count nor the count to him, much as they 
might esteem each other ; and so they parted, 
and we have Methodists for England and United 
Brethren for Germany, each good men in their 
way, and striving to follow God after the pat- 
tern laid down for them by their leaders, John 
Wesley and Count Zinzendorf.” 

“ We’ll talk about the Moravians another 
time ; I feel anxious about Lucy after what you 
have told me, and I wonder Bessie did not 
tell me something of it, or Lucy herself,” said 
Walter. 

He would have gone to his sister’s house in 
fashionable Ormond-street at once if he had 
not been so ill, and no sooner was he a little 
better than he determined to go ; for nearly a 
fortnight had elapsed and no news had come 
from Lucy, neither had she been to the class 
or prayer-meetings. Horace had ascertained 
this for him, and he set off at last, in no small 
anxiety lest Lucy should have been drawn into 
the whirlpool of fashionable life again. 

A sedan chair stood at the door of the house, 
but it was empty, and so Walter knocked, ask- 
ing to see Mistress Lucy Maxwell. The pomp- 


30i 


Lucy s Rescue . 

ous footman looked at the pale, wan face, the 
shirt without frills, and the wrists without ruf- 
fles, and decided that this was a man to be 
treated with scant ceremony. 

“ Mistress Lucy does not see strangers,” he 
said, still holding the door in his hand and 
keeping Walter on the steps. 

“ But I am not a stranger. I am her broth- 
er,” said Walter with some dignity. 

The servant grinned. “ I suppose you are a 
Methodist,” he said, “but Mistress Lucy isn’t 
now, so she can’t be your sister.” 

For once Walter wished he was not a Meth- 
odist, that he might knock the fellow down ; 
but he curbed his rising anger, and speaking 
as calmly as he could he said, “ What do you 
mean by saying Mistress Lucy is not a Meth- 
odist? ” 

The man evidently took a pleasure in tor- 
menting this shabbily-dressed visitor, for he 
could see that his news had struck him like a 
blow, and he resolved to follow it up. “ Well, 
now, I don’t know much of the Methodies and 
their ways, being a respectable man myself, 
but 1 have heard say they never go to Rane- 
lagh Gardens or any place of amusement, and 
that is where Mistress Lucy and madam are 
going to-day.” 


302 


Walter. 


“ Where ? to Ranelagh ? ” demanded Walter, 
almost staggering as he spoke. 

“Yes, she and madam are going to take the 
air to-day at Ranelagh, for Mistress Lucy has 
not been out for a fortnight.” 

“ Why has she not not been out ? Is she 
ill ? ” asked Walter. 

“ That’s none of my business, nor yours 
either. I only know they’re going to Rane- 
lagh to-day, and you’d better be going, too — 
there or somewhere else, for madam will be 
coming out directly, and she don’t like to see 
shabby people about the place.” 

Walter turned without a word, and went 
down the steps. He would go to Ranelagh if 
it was necessary, much as he loathed all such 
gay, fashionable places, but he would rescue 
Lucy if it was possible ; for he felt sure Mary 
was dragging her there against her will. The 
news the man had told him of Lucy not hav- 
ing been out for a fortnight had revived his 
hope in her, and he resolved to wait close to 
the chair, and see her before she started, if pos- 
sible, and if that failed he would follow them 
to the gardens and speak to her there. 

Dame Mary descended the steps first, her 
hair powdered and her face patched and paint- 
ed in the most approved style of the period, 


























































































































































































































































n't./ 






305 


Lucy s Rescue. 

but looking a wearied, anxious, unhappy wom- 
an, in spite of her costly dress and the evidences 
of wealth by which she was surrounded. Lucy 
came close behind, her face likewise adorned 
with the patches of black court plaster that were 
supposed to add to every body’s beauty in 
those days. 

Walter started when he caught sight of the 
patches, for they were to him the mark of the 
beast, the outward and visible sign of his sister 
having sold herself to the world and the devil ; 
and before the sad, down-drooping eyes could 
be lifted Walter had seized her roughly by the 
arm and demanded, “ What is this I see, mad- 
am ? Where are you going, painted like an- 
other Jezebel? ” 

“ O, Walter!” gasped Lucy. 

“ Seize that madman,” cried Dame Mary in 
a fury, “ seize him and carry him off to Bedlam, 
and lift my sister into the chair.” This was 
said to the footman who had followed them, 
and who now approached Lucy. 

But she clung to her brother’s arm, and waved 
the footman off; and Walter said, “Touch her 
if you dare ! She is my sister as much as she 
is Dame Harewood’s,” and he threw his arm 
round her to protect her. 

“ Lucy, leave that mad fellow and come with 


Walter. 


306 

me, or you shall never cross my threshold 
again ! ” said Dame Mary, seeing the footman 
hesitate, and she approached to drag her sister 
away from Walter. 

But Lucy clung the closer to him. “ Save 
me, save me,” she whispered. “ I would rather 
do any thing than go back to the world again.” 

Walter was exultant, and could afford to 
be magnanimous now. “ Mary, be reasonable,” 
he said, “ and we will go indoors and talk this 
matter over together.” 

“ Be reasonable ! You, a madman, who have 
thrown away all your chances of getting on in 
the world, and are a disgrace to the name of 
Maxwell — you talk of being reasonable ! Never 
shall you enter my house, nor that ungrateful 
Lucy either, unless she ends this scandalous 
scene and gets into the chair at once.” 

“ I cannot,” said Lucy. “ I begged and im- 
plored you not to take me to Ranelagh, and 
told you I would escape if I could, even when 
I had little hope of doing so.” 

“And what did I tell you? That I was 
your lawful guardian, and that you were bound 
to obey me, and that if you did not I would 
shut my door against you, and leave you to 
beg your bread ; and I mean it.” Dame Mary 
spoke calmly, but it was the calmness of con- 


307 


Lucy s Rescue . 

centrated fury, and Lucy knew enough of her 
sister to feel sure that she would carry out her 
threat ; but still she did. not hesitate. 

“ I cannot come with you, Mary, and you 
know my reasons,” said Lucy. 

“ Then I will never see you again, you wick- 
ed, ungrateful chit saying which, Dame Mary 
stepped into her chair and was borne away, 
while the brother and sister walked in the op- 
posite direction, anxious to avoid the crowd 
which the altercation had called together. 

“ What am I to do now ? ” said Lucy, look- 
ing down at the silk dress she wore and the 
bronze shoes which were so unbecoming in a 
Methodist. 

“ I think I had better call a coach, and we 
will go to Bessie’s for Lucy’s dress was cer- 
tainly not fit to walk the streets in. 

“ Yes, I think that will be best, and we can 
talk to her about what has happened, though 
I am afraid she will be angry as well as Mary,” 
said Lucy. 

“ How is it you have not been out for a fort- 
night ? ” asked her brother. “ I have been ill 
and expecting to see you every day.” 

“ Mary would not let me come. I was locked 
in my room most of the time ; for I would not 
promise to do as she wished about something 


Walter. 


308 

she thought she had a right to be obeyed in, 
and so — ” 

“ Is it about this marriage Bessie has talked 
of? ” said Walter. 

“ Bessie knows as well as Mary that I never 
promised to be married in six months, as they 
say I did. Sir Charles understands it too, or, 
at least, he will when my letter reaches him,” 
said Lucy. 

“Then you are writing to this gentle- 
man?” said Walter in a tone of stern dis- 
pleasure. 

“ He has written to me twice, and I have 
answered the last one ; for he spoke of my 
spending my life at Whitby Mall, as though 
that was a settled thing. Mary would have 
stopped the letter if she could, but the post 
had gone, and it was that which vexed her so 
much. I am afraid she will never let me go 
back now.” 

“ So much the better, Lucy ; for I want you 
more than she does, and I know somebody 
that wants you more than I do, only he’s been 
afraid to speak. There, I’ve broken my prom- 
ise to Horace, and if you say * no ’ now, Lucy, 
I shall be blamed for it ; but you wont, will 
you ? You wont disappoint the poor fellow at 
last, I’m sure,” and ]je drew his sister’s blush- 


Lucy s Rescue. 


309 


ing face down upon his shoulder, and wanted 
to make her promise she would say “ yes ” to 
her old friend whenever he should ask her. 
But Lucy declared she would not tell him 
what she was likely to say, and that if he dared 
to tell Horace what had passed she would turn 
her back upon the pair of them. 

It was a merry drive altogether, for they 
quite forgot the angry scolding that would be 
sure to await them at their journey’s end, and 
chatted and laughed like two children ; Lucy 
telling her brother of Watt’s projected steam- 
engine, and that it was likely they would see 
wheels turned by steam after all. 

Walter clapped his hands like a boy when 
he heard of it. “ I knew it could be done,” he 
said, “ and I am glad somebody has found out 
how to do it.” 

“ I am glad, too,” said Lucy, “ but I wish it 
had been you, Walter. It might have been — 
it would have been, I feel sure, if I had not 
hated the Methodists so much.” 


3io 


Walter. 


CHAPTER XX. 

LUCY’S FORTUNE. 

UCY’S reception by her sister was just 



J — * what she feared it would be — Bessie pos- 
itively refusing to let her stay even one night 
in her house, and advising that she should go 
back and humble herself to Mary, or, better 
still, go and meet her at Ranelagh Gardens, 
and write a different letter to Sir Charles Prin- 
gle. But, of course, this was out of the ques- 
tion, and so Walter took her home with him — 
not to stay, however, for little William Wilber- 
force met them as they came in, with a request 
that Lucy should go home to Wimbledon with 
them. He had come with his aunt to see Mr. 
Golding, and ask for Lucy’s address, and now 
she had come just in time to go back with 


them. 


His aunt, it seemed, was in some trouble, 
for news had just reached her that Mr. White- 
field was dead. It had not been confirmed yet, 
but she feared it was too true, and longed for 
Lucy to be with her at this time. To hear 
that her sisters had turned their backs upon 


Lucy s Fortune . 31 1 

her, and that she was at liberty to make a long 
stay, was almost pleasant news to the lady, 
much as she might regret the cause which 
gave her friend such liberty. 

Mr. Whitefield had gone to America again — 
had been gone only a short time, when the 
rumor of his death reached Wimbledon ; but, 
happily, it proved only a rumor this time, and 
friends in England hoped he might be spared 
to a good old age, in spite of his own fear lest 
he should outlive his usefulness. “ I shall 
live to be a poor, peevish old man, and every 
body will be tired of me,” he said one day to 
a friend, and the fear and dread of this posi- 
tively depressed him sometimes, for he was 
quite aware that he had a quick, irritable tem- 
per that often gave his friends pain, which he 
regretted, even to tears, afterward. 

Lucy and her friend often talked of this, com- 
paring Mr. Wesley and Mr. Whitefield, and how 
happily these two great men and dear friends 
had spent together the last weeks of Mr. White- 
field’s stay in England. Mr. Whitefield had at- 
tended the last Conference, and Mr. Wesley 
had preached in the Countess of Huntingdon’s 
chapel ; and it seemed as though the theological 
differences that had previously separated this 
noble master and his disciple had at last died 


312 


Walter. 


out : for, as Wesley had told a friend, “ Bigotry 
cannot stand before him, but hides its head 
wherever he comes. My brother and I con- 
ferred with him every day, and, let the honor- 
able men do what they please, we resolved by 
the grace of God to go hand in hand through 
honor and dishonor.” 

“ We think of all this now,” said Dame Wil- 
berforce, “ and, remembering how worn and old 
he looked when he last returned from America, 
we cannot but fear that his life will not be a 
long one.” 

‘‘But he is not an old man, is he?” asked 
Lucy. “ Let me see : it must be sixteen years 
ago since I heard him preach. It was early one 
morning; we were on our way to Glouces- 
ter; and if I had heard Mr. Whitefield as 
my father and brother did that morning — if I 
had not taken up a blind prejudice against the 
Methodists — what a different life mine might 
have been, and Walter’s likewise ! ” and Lucy 
thought of another whose life had been a lonely 
one through this same fault, and a faint color 
stole into her face as she spoke. 

“ My dear, it is for God to take our spoiled 
lives and make them yield sweetness at last,” 
said Dame Wilberforce tenderly, taking Lucy’s 
hand, for she saw that her friend was over- 


Lucy's Fortune . 3 1 3 

come by her recollection of the bitter, wasted 
past. 

“ Do you think we dare attempt such a work ? 
Would it not be presumption for such a wom- 
an of the world as I have been to attempt to 
work for God now? I might have done it 
once. At least I might have helped one who 
has devoted his life to God ; but now it seems 
presumption for me to offer such a poor service 
as I could give.” 

“ Then, my dear friend, what do you pro- 
pose to do?” said Dame Wilberforce. “If 
you do not serve God you must serve the devil 
• — there is no middle course, no neutral ground 
in the fight between good and evil. Our Lord 
and Saviour has said, ‘ Whosoever is not for 
me is against me.’ Do you deliberately choose 
to range yourself among the enemies of God ? ” 

“ O no, no,” said Lucy quickly. “ You mis- 
understand me. It is that I do not think my- 
self worthy to engage in God’s service as most 
Methodists do ; as I should if — ” and there 
Lucy stopped. 

Her friend would not notice the abrupt con- 
clusion of her speech. Perhaps she knew 
enough to divine what was passing in her mind, 
and she said quietly, “ My dear, we are all un- 
worthy servants, but it is our duty to follow 
20 


3M 


Walter. 


where God calls us, and I trust if such a call 
should come to you it will not be neglected or 
refused through any false humility ; for you 
must remember this, my dear, the devil is more 
busy among Christians than among worldly 
people. They may safely be left to go the 
downward road in following their own selfish, 
sinful ways, but Christians must be watched 
and hindered, and if they cannot be won back 
to the world in the usual way, Satan can coun- 
terfeit some spiritual grace, which he thrusts in 
the way, and which is too often taken for the 
real grace. So, my dear friend, beware of this 
wile of the devil. It needs much watchfulness 
and prayer ; but these he cannot withstand, and 
God is stronger than our adversary, and will 
with every temptation make a way of escape, 
if we do but earnestly seek it from him.” 

No one would, perhaps, have urged a more 
powerful plea than this for the acceptance of 
Horace Golding’s request that she should now 
become his wife. The clergyman did not wait 
long before he visited Wimbledon and urged 
this upon her ; but, prepared by what Walter 
had told her, and the conversation with her 
friend, Lucy did not put him off on a plea of 
her unworthiness, but frankly accepted the pa- 
tient love of this constant friend, only remind- 


3i5 


Lucy s Fortune. 

mg him that he would have much to teach her, 
much to bear with from her, for she keenly 
felt her own unfitness for the work that would 
naturally fall to her lot as a Methodist parson’s 
wife. 

Of course Horace did not please every body; 
his Methodist friends especially were loud in 
their condemnation of his choice of a wife, 
when it became known ; but he told them, as 
he told Walter, he never should be a Moravian 
brother or even a good Methodist to the ex- 
tent of having his choice* of a life companion 
controlled by others. He was thankful to get 
Lucy, fine lady though she was, and he doubt- 
ed not she would manage his slender income 
so as to make it suffice for their few wants, a 
boast he often had to make as much for his 
own assurance as for other people’s ; for he was 
often anxious and troubled about the future 
and the poor home he had to offer Lucy. 

Lucy was altogether indifferent to such mat- 
ters. She was tired of being a fine lady, and 
had so little experience in the use of money 
that she thought fifty pounds a year would do 
wonders. Fortunately for her and Horace she 
never knew, by bitter experience, how poorly 
a house could be kept on this curate’s stipend, 
which in those days was not exceptionally 


Walter. 


316 

small ; for many a country rector s was less and 
had to be eked out by farming or less honora- 
ble means, so that Horace Golding was by no 
means a badly-paid clergyman as things went. 

But before Lucy had been at Wimbledon 
many weeks, where it was agreed she should 
stay until she was married, she received a let- 
ter from Paris, telling her of the death of Sir 
Charles Pringle, and shortly afterward she was 
informed that he had left her all his property, 
burdened with but one condition — that she 
should reside six months of the year, at least, 
at Whitby Mall, and do something for the neg- 
lected parish around it. 

Sir Charles had no near relatives, it seemed, 
and his mother, during her life time, had been 
the Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood. It 
was that the old regime , or something like it, 
might be restored, that he had chosen Lucy as 
his heiress if she survived him. The will set- 
tling this had been made immediately after he 
left Lucy, the day before that fixed for their 
wedding, but the explanation of his reasons for 
this had been written by himself soon after he 
was taken ill and only a few days before he 
died. His mother was a good woman, he said, 
and begged he would choose a good woman 
for his wife, and he believed he should be obey- 


Lucy s Fortune. 3 1 7 

ing his mother’s last wishes by giving all he pos- 
sessed to Lucy to carry on the work his mother 
would have done had she lived. For himself 
he knew not what to think. He was convinced 
now — Lucy by her last action had convinced 
him — that there was more in religion than the 
philosophers had dreamed of ; but he was like 
a child in the dark groping for the light. He 
was willing to be taught now ; he was praying 
for light — “ light, more light ” — to know who 
and what to believe. On the outside of this 
packet, in a faint scrawl, unlike the usual firm 
handwriting of Sir Charles, was written, “ Fare- 
well, Lucy, the Light has come at last — the 
Light of the world.” 

Lucy grieved over Sir Charles’ death the more, 
perhaps, because he had left her his heiress and 
could never sh^ j in the work he had commit- 
ted to her. He had been a pleasant compan- 
ion and considerate friend, and she sorrowed 
for him as such ; and if she could have put his 
wealth from her and cut herself entirely away 
from him and all the past with which he was 
connected, she would have been happier. But 
this was impossible. The past, it seemed, 
could not be pushed away and left behind. It 
would thrust itself upon her in some form or 
another, and now the more than questionable 


3i8 


Walter. 


blessing of wealth was to be hers. For a time 
Lucy was crushed, almost overwhelmed ; but a 
most unexpected visit from her sister Mary 
brought her to her senses. 

Dame Harewood had heard of her good for- 
tune, and came to congratulate her and invite 
her back to Ormond-street. She was most 
effusive in her thanks to Dame Wilberforce for 
taking care of her dear sister, and frankly as- 
sured her it was only a little sisterly difference 
that had made Lucy run away from her ; but 
now there was no longer any cause for such 
difference Lucy must return to get her mourn- 
ing made after the most fashionable style, “ For, 
of course,” she said, “ you will go into mourn- 
ing for poor Sir Charles, Lucy?” 

“ I don’t know. I have hardly thought 
about it yet ; but I will talk to Walter and 
Horace about it by and by,” said Lucy, wearily. 

“ Walter ! Horace ! What can they know as 
to what is fit and proper for you, Lucy?” said 
her sister. 

‘‘Walter is my brother, and Horace my fu- 
ture husband, and therefore — ” 

But Dame Mary had started from her seat. 
“ Can you be so heartless as to talk of another 
husband when Sir Charles is scarcely in his 
grave? Lucy, I am ashamed of you. What 


Lucy s Fortune. 319 

will the world say? and you profess to be a 
Methodist, too ! ” 

“ But I never professed to love Sir Charles, 
and he knew it,” said Lucy, calmly. “ In the 
last letter I wrote to him I told him I could 
esteem him as a friend, but I had never felt 
more than this for him, and if I go into mourn- 
ing it will simply be for a friend and nothing 
more.” 

“ I think, madam, I must ask you to spare 
Lucy to stay with me until Mr. Golding claims 
her,” interposed gentle Dame Wilberforce -at 
this point. 

“ I think it will be better, too, Mary. I can 
come and see you, if you like, and when I am 
settled at the Mall you must come and see 
me.” 

“ Then you really will go and live at the 
Mall ? ” said Dame Mary. 

“ Certainly. Sir Charles wished it — wished 
me to do as his mother did — and so I must go 
and talk to the old people, and find out all 
Lady Pringle did for them.” 

“ But — but, Lucy, this wedding must be put 
off now. It is entirely unsuitable. Think how 
you have laughed at and ridiculed Horace 
Golding.” 

“ I know I have, but I am a Methodist my- 


320 


Walter. 


self now, and very thankful that Horace has 
forgiven me so far as to ask me to become his 
wife. For his sake I am glad Sir Charles has 
left me this wealth. I could hardly undertake 
such a heavy burden but that I know I shall 
have the help of one who loves the poor and 
loves to do good as much as ever Lady Pringle 
did, and will faithfully fulfill the trust com- 
mitted to us.” 

“ Lucy, you talk like a mad woman. I can 
understand that you were glad enough to 
marry Horace when you were a homeless beg- 
gar, but things are different now. You are a 
lady of wealth and distinction. Mistress Lucy 
Maxwell, of Whitby Mall and Briarly Park, 
and the foolish girl I turned out of Ormond- 
street are two different people, and Horace 
Golding ought to know it.” 

Unfortunately Horace was much the same 
way of thinking, and Lucy knew that this for- 
tune was likely to be any thing but an unmixed 
blessing to her ; for already a coolness seemed 
to have sprung up between them, and it needed 
all the common-sense arguments of Walter, 
and counsels as to a false sense of duty, mod- 
esty, and delicacy from Dame Wilberforce, to 
prevent him from breaking off the engagement 
w th Lucy, especially after Dame Mary had 


Lucy s Fortune, 321 

been to see him and given him her views of 
the matter. 

“ Would you leave the poor lassie to carry 
this burden alone ? ” said Dame Wilberforce. 
“ She is well-nigh crushed as it is, for she is 
but a babe in Christ, and fears her strength 
will fail her ; but I have cheered her by saying 
God sent her a prop and helpmeet before he 
sent the burden, and now you threaten to 
leave her to bear the burden and heat of the 
day alone. It is weak and cowardly, Horace 
Golding, and if you do this thing, and break 
the heart that leans upon you, I shall think of 
you as one who fainted in the day of battle, 
and no true, brave Methodist, braving the opin- 
ion of the world for Christ’s sake.” 

This argument prevailed at last, and Horace 
promised not to interpose any hinderances to 
their marriage, which had been arranged to 
take place the following spring. 

But Lucy was not going to wait for this be- 
fore commencing her duty at Whitby. She 
would not go to reside at the Mall yet, but 
Walter and Horace paid a visit to the village 
to ascertain what the condition of the poor 
was likely to be during the winter, and whether 
the parson was likely to help or hinder them 
in the work they proposed doing. 


322 


Walter. 


The report Horace brought back was dis- 
couraging. The parson was a fair specimen of 
most country parsons — a fox-hunting, easy- 
going, jovial sort of man, not easily roused 
against any thing except Dissenters and Meth- 
odists. The name of a Methodist was enough 
to rouse him to fury. There was one service, 
every other Sunday, in the parish church, but 
that was a mile from the village, the Mall 
standing about midway between the two. 

“ Very well ; we will go to church, and get 
the people to do the same, when the church 
is open, and when it is not we will hold a serv- 
ice at the Mall. Is there any room suitable, 
I wonder? Dame Wilberforce is going with 
me to see the place next week ; she knows it 
well, for it is only about ten miles from here.’* 

“ Scarcely ten miles, I should think,” said 
Walter, who was glad to see his sister taking 
some interest in her new possession at last. 
Sir Charles Pringle’s lawyer had been to see 
Lucy about some of the business connected 
with the change of ownership, and wished her 
to meet him at the Mall, to be introduced to 
the old servants and sign some necessary docu- 
ments ; so she had agreed to go with Dame 
Wilberforce soon after Walter and Horace had 
been to reconnoiter their new home. 


Lucy's Fortune. 323 

As the ladies drove through the dirty, 
sloppy, un drained village, so like Whitemead 
that Lucy almost expected to see her uncle’s 
parsonage when she turned her head, she re- 
called something of the doctor’s talk with her 
father that summer morning about cleanliness 
being next to godliness ; and she resolved to 
do what she could to better these cottage 
homes as well as turn the Mall into a Method- 
ist establishment, combining college, (on the 
principle of Kingswood,) orphanage, hospital 
for the sick, and, above all, a Sunday-school 
for the children of the village. 

Lucy, Horace, and Walter had talked it over 
between themselves, and settled it so far as 
they were concerned, but they had not vent- 
ured to tell any one else yet. Dame Wilber- 
force was to be taken into the secret to-day 
after they had seen the house, and would 
doubtless help them in planning which rooms 
should be set aside for the children’s use, and 
where the students should be lodged, and 
which would be the best place to fix upon for 
a hospital. 

It was not the first country house of the 
kind that had been turned to such a use, and 
Dame Wilberforce had visited one, and had 
also been to Kingswood and Trevecca, and, 


3 2 4 


Walter. 


therefore, her advice would be of much value 
in arranging their new home. 

The lady was not very much surprised to 
hear Lucy say what she intended to do. “ But, 
my dear, you must be careful,” she said. 
“ You are coming as a stranger among these 
people, and you cannot expect them to trust 
you until they know you. Come and live 
among them first. Let them know that you 
really care for them and their welfare, and then 
they will not mind your turning the old Mall 
into a Methodist college.” 

“Why should they mind at all?” said Lucy. 

“ Well, my dear, they consider they have a 
right in the Mall, I have little doubt, and I 
would not venture to touch the pictures or 
plate, or even the furniture, more than is neces- 
sary in moving it from one room to the other,” 
a caution not altogether unneeded, for Lucy 
had made up her mind to sell all the plate and 
fine furniture to supply her students with 
books ; but she decided to be governed by her 
friend’s opinion, at least for the present — a de- 
cision that, doubtless, saved them from many 
difficulties, for the villagers were by no means 
inclined to welcome any innovation on the es- 
tablished order of things, and hated Method- 
ists as cordially as their parson did. 


Whitby Mall. 


325 


CHAPTER XXI. 


WHITBY MALL. 


TCY was married in the spring without fur- 



J J ther let or hinderance from Dame Mary, 
who, nevertheless, contrived to be on pretty 
good terms with her younger sister, for Lucy 
was a person of some importance now, not- 
withstanding her Methodism. Of course she 
was dreadfully vexed when she heard that 
Whitby Mall was to be diverted from its origin- 
al use as a country family mansion to a hospital 
for the lame, halt, blind, and sons of poor, dis- 
senting ministers, who went there to gain some 
educational advantages they could not get 
elsewhere. The villagers were scarcely less 
offended than Dame Mary herself, and every 
effort put forth on their behalf was looked 
upon with suspicion and distrust, and even re- 
sented as a dangerous innovation — an infringe- 
ment of their rights in dirt and squalor, fever 
and ague. 

One day, late in the summer, Mr. Wesley 
came riding through the village street, not 
reading, as was his usual custom, but looking 


Walter. 


3 26 

sadly perturbed and anxious. Horace Gold- 
ing saw him from an upper window, and went 
out at once to meet him and beg him to stay 
and rest at the Mall. 

“ Nay, nay, Brother Golding, I have little 
time for rest, for I am the bearer of heavy tid- 
ings. Brother Whitefield has been called to 
his reward, and I am on my way to acquaint 
some friends with the news.” 

But he was prevailed upon to let his horse 
have a mouthful of hay and a draught of wa- 
ter, while he stepped into the great hall and 
drank a glass of milk to refresh him on his 
journey. 

“ You must saddle ‘ Gipsy ’ for me at once, 
Horace, and let me ride to Dame Wilberforce ; 
for she is already in sore trouble concerning 
the removal of little William from her care, 
and this sad news will almost crush her,” said 
Lucy when she heard the news. 

“ Ah, ah, that is well thought of, good dame ; 
do not neglect old friends even for the good 
work you are doing here. How many orphans 
have you in the Lord’s nursery ? ” 

“ Only four at present. We have not room 
for more until we turn some more rooms out 
to receive them, and Dame Wilberforce ad- 
vised that we should be cautious about this.” 


Whitby Mall. 


327 


“ Yes, caution is needful in all things,” said 
Mr. Wesley, but he spoke with a pre-occupied 
air, and as though he was thinking of some- 
thing else. Presently he unburdened his mind 
to his friend. “ This will make an end of the 
error my brother so grievously fell into,” he 
said. “ Calvinism will never hold up its head 
again, and Methodism will be rescued from 
that deadly peril.” 

Horace reminded him that the Countess of 
Huntingdon was still alive, and that many of 
the clergymen known as Methodists, but still 
conforming to the rules of the Church of En- 
gland, as he had done, held this doctrine of 
predestination. Augustus Toplady, in partic- 
ular, preached it as vehemently as Whitefield 
himself had done, and he had said some very 
hard things of those holding the Wesleyan, 
or free-grace, views. Horace foresaw some- 
thing of what did follow shortly afterward, 
and as he and Lucy rode to Wimbledon 
that afternoon he told her something of his 
fears. 

“ Mr. Wesley thinks that the blasphemous 
doctrine of predestination will die with Mr. 
Whitefield, or at least that it will need but a 
few more sermons to kill it outright,” said 
Horace ; “ but I fear these few sermons will 


328 Walter. 

awaken all the old bitterness and evil-speak- 
ing—” 

“ What ? Evil-speaking among Christian 
brethren ! I thought Mr. Wesley was going 
to preach Mr. Whitefield’s funeral sermon at 
the Tabernacle,” exclaimed Lucy, who knew 
but little of theological differences, and could 
understand them less. 

“ Yes, my dear, Mr. Wesley will preach the 
sermon, and is sorely grieved for the death of 
Mr. Whitefield. He spoke most highly of his 
work in America, and how much he had done 
for the plantations there in preaching the Gos- 
pel and rousing men to think of another life, 
although he had never attempted to form them 
into a Society, which Mr. Wesley thinks is a 
mistake,” explained Horace. 

At Wimbledon they found Dame Wilberforce 
in great trouble, not only on account of the 
death of Mr. Whitefield, but also because her 
little nephew had been taken from her care, 
lest he should become a Methodist. To etase 
from his mind all recollection of the serious 
subjects taught him by his aunt, his mother 
had taken him into the gayest society Hull 
would afford, and the little boy’s last letter to 
his aunt was an account of the card parties 
and dancing parties he had been to since his 


329 


Whitby Mall. 

return home. The poor lady was almost in 
despair; as she said again and again, “I had 
such great hopes of him — he is such a promis- 
ing child.” 

Lucy comforted her by repeating again the 
story of John Newton’s life, and how his moth- 
er’s prayers were answered years after she had 
died. “ And who can tell, dear sister, but that 
the lessons little William learned here will 
spring up again, though seemingly lost, and 
bear fruit to the glory of God and the salvation 
of many souls ? ” 

The friends had a pleasant reminder that all 
the Wimbledon lessons were not forgotten 
some little time afterward, for they received a 
newspaper, published in York, in which was a 
letter or essay, written by William Wilberforce, 
protesting against “ the odious traffic in hu- 
man flesh,” and enunciating the doctrines he 
and Lucy had so often talked over together. 
His aunt was pleased and proud, and well she 
might be, for the twelve-year-old school-boy 
wrote in clear, terse language, and his argu- 
ments were unanswerable. Lucy was scarcely 
less proud than Dame Wilberforce herself, and 
Walter declared it was almost as good as the 
tract written by his friend, Benezet. 

Walter had been living with his sister ever 
21 


330 


Walter. 


since her marriage, helping Horace with the 
students and Lucy with her Sunday-school ; 
for she had so far overcome the prejudice 
against the Methodists as to prevail upon some 
of the village matrons to send their children 
for the “ quality ” to teach. Not that they ap- 
proved of it, or thought that book-learning 
would be any good to the children ; on the 
contrary, they viewed the whole proceedings 
at the Mall with suspicion and distrust, and 
closely questioned the lads and lasses as to 
what they saw and heard and learned in the 
Mall kitchen, ready not only to take them 
away, but to burn down the Mall if any thing 
was said or done that did not please them. 

This sullen suspicion and distrust was kept 
up by the parson of the parish, who felt him- 
self personally wronged and insulted by this 
intrusion of Methodists on his domain, and 
nothing but the gracious dignity of Lucy, and 
her kind help and consideration for every man, 
woman, and child that came within her influ- 
ence, saved them from the rough treatment too 
often dealt out to the Methodists in those 
days. 

“ She be a lady of quality, and a beautiful 
one, too ! There aint another in the county 
as can match our madam of the Mall,” the 


33 1 


Whitby Mall . 

villagers would say one to the other as they 
watched her threading her way between the 
ash and dung heaps and puddles of stagnant 
water that adorned the village street. 

Lucy was trying now, as her uncle had years 
before in another village, to get these removed ; 
but she had not prevailed yet, although they 
would do almost any thing to please the win- 
ning, gracious lady, who was so unlike every 
other lady of quality in her sweet self-forget- 
fulness and care for other people’s comfort. 
They grew to be proud of her and her majestic 
beauty, that the prim dress she wore could no 
more conceal than the summer foliage could 
hide the sun. They would stand at their doors 
and look after her as she passed, or put them- 
selves in her way to exchange a pleasant word 
with her ; for Lucy always had one ready for 
every body. Horace was accustomed to say 
that her beauty was no vain thing, but a pre- 
cious gift from God, endowing her as it did 
with a power and influence that no one else 
possessed, and without which their efforts for 
the good of their neighbors would be well-nigh 
useless. 

Horace Golding’s fears regarding the few 
sermons that were to preach down the doc- 
trine of predestination were speedily verified. 


332 


Walter. 


Mr. Whitefield had died at Newburyport, in 
New England, and, by his own request, his 
body was buried before the pulpit in the Pres- 
byterian church of that town, in the year 1770 ; 
but before its close the fierce theological strife 
had begun in old England, and became so 
heated that saintly Mr. Fletcher was requested 
to retire from Trevecca or give up his connec- 
tion with Mr. Wesley ; and many of the stu- 
dents were compelled to leave for the same 
reason, it now being made imperative for all 
to hold the doctrine of predestination, as 
preached by Mr. Whitefield and Mr. Toplady, 
or cut themselves off from Lady Huntingdon’s 
Connection. In this strait several of the stu- 
dents came to Whitby Mall to finish their 
course of study, much to Walter’s dismay, for 
it would involve another postponement of his 
return to America. His health had been grad- 
ually re-established, and, with returning 
health, had come the old desire to return to 
his work in the New World, which Mr. White- 
field’s death had increased. But the Minutes 
of the Conference of 1771 seemed to be an in- 
superable barrier against his return ; for it was 
because they would not fully disavow these 
antipredestinarian Minutes that the Trevecca 
students had to retire from their college, and 


333 


Whitby Mall. 

how could Walter leave with a fresh influx of 
students to teach ? There had been some talk 
of Mr. Wesley going to America this year, 
but the storm raised by the Conference Min- 
utes effectually prevented this ; but he sent 
over two others, Pochard Wright and Francis 
Asbury, the latter of whom proved not inferior 
to himself in zeal, activity, and perseverance. 
Walter was dreadfully disappointed that he 
could not go out with Asbury, for the two had 
already formed a friendship. He came to stay 
at the Mall for a few days before he sailed, and 
promised to let his friends know of the prog- 
ress of Methodism in the plantations. 

“ If it does but spread there as it has in 
Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and the West In- 
dies it will be a mighty power in the land,” 
said Horace, though it must be confessed he 
rather wished America had not been heard of ; 
for Walter was so often talking of it and de- 
ploring his inability to return to his work 
there, that Horace was growing tired of the 
theme. 

“ Methodism will be as great and grand in 
America as it is in England,” said Walter 
warmly ; “ and I shall never rest until I can 
return and help in the glorious warfare going 
on there.” 


334 


Walter. 


“ Don’t talk of warfare out there, Maxwell,” 
said Mr. Asbury. “ I have a feeling, or rath- 
er a fear, that there may be something like 
it from what I have heard from one or two 
lately.” 

“ Why, what have you heard ? ” asked Walter, 
eagerly. 

“ Well, I suppose as you have been there 
you know that the Americans have been dis- 
satisfied for a long time.” 

“ Of course they were about the Stamp Act, 
but Pitt repealed it, and commended America 
for the efforts against the imposition as ‘ truly 
glorious,’” said Walter, triumphantly. 

“ And how about the duties levied on other 
things about a year afterward?” asked his 
friend. 

“ O yes, I remember Walter telling us he 
had not tasted China tea for more than a year 
before he came home,” put in his sister. 

“ No one drank it, Dame Lucy. I remem- 
ber now there were associations formed to pro- 
test against these unjust duties and induce 
people to abstain from the use of all articles 
thus taxed, and tea, glass, painters’ colors, and 
paper went out of fashion all at once. But 
have not those duties been removed yet, As- 
bury?” asked Walter. 


Whitby Mall. 335 

“ I hear they have taken off all the taxes 
but that on tea, and it was expected the meas- 
ure would be received with as much joy as 
Pitt’s repeal of the Stamp Act, but it seems 
that the colonists are throughly dissatisfied, 
and it is whispered that some even talk of their 
rights to independence.” 

“What! be independent of England?” ex- 
claimed Horace. “ Take care, brother, how 
you talk of that, for ’tis nothing less than 
treason.” 

“ Treason or not, others are talking of it, 
and in London, too,” said Mr. Asbury. “You 
see,” he went on, “ that since I have had some 
thoughts of going to America, I have made it 
my business to inquire all about it, and have 
got together a good many scraps of informa- 
tion, and this among them, that there are some 
rogues over here as busy in fomenting the dis- 
content as they are over there, and things must 
soon grow better or worse. Pitt’s speech 
against the right of the home Government to 
impose taxes upon the colonies has done a 
good deal to set men thinking about this mat- 
ter of taxation.” 

“ Pitt is a wise statesman, I have little doubt; 
but ’tis a pity he should ever speak in such a 
way as that,” remarked Horace. “ He should 


Walter. 


336 

have tried to keep them quiet, not increase 
their discontent.’’ 

“ But if these taxes were wrong, what then, 
Brother Golding? You surely hold with me 
that the same law of right and wrong, honesty 
and dishonesty, should prevail with nations as 
with individuals, and if it is wrong for me to 
extort money from my brother across the 
street, it is wrong to rob the pockets of our 
neighbors across the water.” 

“ Dangerous doctrine, Brother Asbury,” said 
Horace. “ What say you, Walter ? ” 

But Walter was not prepared to give an 
opinion just now. “ I would not lightly break 
God’s commandment and fail in honor to the 
king,” he said, “ but there is much to be said 
for the colonists’ refusal to pay taxes, and if 
Mr. Pitt says it is unjust I am willing to say so, 
too. But do you think the dissatisfaction is 
really growing serious ? ” he asked. “ Of course 
I know they have grumbled a great deal — we 
all do — somebody has called us a nation of 
grumblers, and if we are, the Americans must 
be, for they are our own kith and kin. But 
still a little grumbling hurts nobody and no- 
body cares for it.” 

“ That’s just it, my brother — nobody notices 
the gathering storm until it is too late. It was 


337 


Whitby Mall ’ 

so in the last century. People grumbled at 
King James and his son, King Charles, until 
they were quite used to the petitions and re- 
monstrances of Parliament, but there came a 
time at last when the sword took the place of 
the petition, and I fear it may be so again if 
our Govermnent is so unwise as not to heed 
the grumblers/’ 

“ Well, it may be so,” admitted Walter. 
“America is not the few plantations people 
seem to think it is. New England is worthy 
of its name, and New Englanders have not 
forgotten the traditions of their fathers, or the 
time you have been talking about, when many 
of them took part in the grumbling and the 
fighting, too.” 

“ But you don’t really think it would ever 
come to fighting ? ” said Dame Lucy, looking 
up from her spinning-wheel, which had taken 
the place of the more elegant lace and em- 
broidery work. 

“ I know not what to think, sometimes,” said 
Mr. Asbury, for he had been talking to some 
friends the day before who saw nothing but 
disaster ahead in the relation of the home Gov- 
ernment to their American colonies. 

“ It is well for us, Lucy, that we have not 
the guiding of States in such difficult times,” 


Walter. 


338 

said her husband. “This little kingdom of 
the Mall taxes all our united energies, and we 
have little time to give to the disputes of 
nations.’' 

“ But I like to hear about America, and Mr. 
Asbury’s talk about the rights and wrongs of 
taxing other countries may help me out of 
some difficulty with my neighbors in the vil- 
lage, for it does help us, I think, to decide a 
difficult point to go back to the root of the 
matter : the honesty and justice of the thing in 
dispute.” 

How often such little disputes arose in Lucy’s 
dealings with the servants, farmers, and cot- 
tagers around, her husband did not know. 
Lucy had undertaken to be her own house- 
keeper, and cater for the wants of her numer- 
ous and heterogeneous family; and she found 
its duties most difficult and onerous sometimes, 
but she bore this burden without troubling her 
husband more than was actually necessary, for 
she knew that his energies were quite as heav- 
ily taxed in other directions. Like a true wife 
she resolved to lighten and brighten his work 
as much as possible and not add to its weight 
and difficulty. 

Now this little talk about America and its 
taxation had helped her to form a rule for her 


339 


Whitby Mall. 

own guidance in dealing with her neighbors. 
It should not be custom or expediency, or 
what Lady Pringle had been used to do, but it 
should be what was honest and just and true 
between man and man, as in God’s sight, and 
she would not only do it herself, but use all 
her influence to induce others to adopt the 
same rule. 

She greatly enjoyed this visit of Mr. Asbury. 
To see him was to bring back the time when 
she lay ill at Mrs. Watts’, and first began to 
appreciate the Methodists at their true value. 
She asked after her old friends at Pedington, 
and told him how often she had heard his ser- 
mons second hand, and wished she might see 
and talk to him, but had felt ashamed to ex- 
press it after the hatred and opposition she 
had always shown to the Methodists — and what 
trouble this had led her into afterward. Then 
she told him of her visit to Olney, and that she 
hoped to go again when the affairs of the Mall 
were more settled, and she had secured the help 
of some responsible person who could be left 
to look after the orphans and servants during 
her absence. The earnest-hearted evangelist 
enjoyed his stay at the Mall too. It was a rest 
from the theological strife that raged so fierce- 
ly just now, a strife that was altogether prof- 


340 


Walter. 


itless, for neither side could be moved by the 
hard words hurled at them by the other, and 
which, by Dame Lucy’s request, was seldom 
mentioned at the Mall ; she wisely saying they 
must work and leave the talking to those who 
knew how to carry on the dispute better than 
they did. 


Conclusion. 


341 


CHAPTER XXII. 

CONCLUSION. 

“ \ T J ALTER, Walter, have you heard the 
V V news ? All the English missionaries 
have been obliged to return from America.” 

“ Nonsense, Lucy. It cannot be true,” said 
Walter ; but he turned pale as he spoke, for 
after all, late events might make such a calam- 
ity possible. 

Lucy had been on a visit to Wimbledon, 
and the news had just reached her there that 
the preachers sent out by Mr. Wesley had 
barely escaped with their lives, and she had 
ridden to the Mall to communicate the fact at 
once to her brother, for Walter was preparing 
t-o go out to the colonies in a few weeks to re- 
sume his work with his friend Asbury. 

“ Lucy, you must make a mistake,” he said, 
unwilling to believe such sad news, which again 
overthrew all his hopes. “ I know that since the 
throwing of the tea into Boston harbor some- 
thing like a war has been going on, but — ” 

“ Something like a war ! ” repeated Lucy. 
“ Why, there has been more than one battle, 


342 


Walter. 


people say, and so it’s useless to shut your 
eyes any longer, for you really cannot go now, 
Walter.” 

“ Not if Asbury and the rest , have come 
back; but are you sure about it, Lucy?” 

“ I am sure that most of them have come ; 
but they say Asbury refused to leave a little 
while ago.” 

“ There, I knew things were not so bad,” 
said Walter triumphantly. 

“ But you do not think that such men as 
George Shadford and Thomas Rankin would 
forsake their posts for a trifle ? ” said Lucy, 
who had “ mothered ” the two evangelists be- 
fore they went out, adding many little com- 
forts to the stores they took with them. 

“No, no, of course not, Lucy; but they 
have not been there as long as Asbury. Why, 
let me see, he has been gone nearly six years, 
and knows the Americans pretty well by this 
time.” 

“That may be, but still there has been a 
violent persecution of the Methodists. Some 
had been tarred and feathered, and had their 
houses burned and property destroyed, just 
because they were Methodists and followers 
of Mr. Wesley.” 

“Then, Lucy, it is Mr. John’s own doings. 


Conclusion. 


343 


0 dear ! I was afraid when I read his ‘ Calm 
Address to the Americans ’ it would make 
mischief there. You know it offended a good 
many of the colonists’ friends over here. I do 
wish he had not meddled in politics at all. I 
am sure Mr. Charles’ advice was best, that they 
should take neither side in this quarrel. I re- 
member his words so well the last time I saw 
him. ‘ I am of neither side,’ he said, ‘and yet 
of both — on the one side of New England, and 
of Old. We love all, and pray for all with a 
sincere and impartial love. Faults there may 
be on both sides, but such as neither you nor 

1 can remedy; therefore let us and all our 
children give ourselves unto prayer, and so 
stand still and see the salvation of God.’ ” 

“I have heard Mr. John speak in the same 
way,” said Lucy. 

“ So have I, but he did not write like that 
in his ‘ Calm Address ; ’ and we may be sure 
how many read that when forty thousand were 
sold in three weeks. He did not follow Mr. 
Pitt, but said the Home Government had the 
right to lay any taxes they liked on the colo- 
nies for the good of the whole empire; and we 
may be sure how this offended the Americans 
and set them against all the Methodists. O 
dear, I am so sorry! I wonder what Mr. 


344 


Walter. 


Fletcher will think now ? for he wrote a let 
ter defending Mr. Wesley and the ‘ Calm 
Address/ ” 

Walter could not settle down to his work 
of teaching now, and presently saddled his 
horse and rode to London, resolving to see 
the returned missionaries, if possible, and hear 
from them all that they knew of American 
affairs. 

Lucy was glad to see her brother go, for she, 
too, was anxious to hear more particulars, and 
she knew by past experience that it was impos- 
sible for him to settle to his work when any 
thing had disturbed him ; and he and her hus- 
band, dear friends as they were, often fretted 
each other when Walter was in this mood. 

So when Walter had ridden off, Lucy sent 
a message to the lecture-room bidding her 
husband come to their own nursery as soon 
as he could leave his class. They had been 
obliged to make one portion of the house into 
a home for themselves ; for babies had come 
direct from God into Lucy’s arms, making end- 
less complications and anxieties at first, but 
convincing their parents at last that God’s 
ordinance of family life was the sweetest, di- 
vinest, and best, and that the most carefully- 
arranged and best-conducted phalanstery could 


Conclusion. 


345 


never supersede it. So Lucy and Horace had 
to bend to circumstances, and confess that 
they had failed in carrying out their grand 
idea, as so many others had done. They 
had worked earnestly and faithfully, sparing 
neither wealth nor influence, time nor energy ; 
but the best they could produce was not a 
large, united, happy family, such as they had 
dreamed of, but a community of discordant 
atoms, which they resolved now to make the 
best of, and work faithfully in their appointed 
spheres. They reserved to themselves the 
right of establishing a little, sweet, sacred 
home, where they could retire from the fret 
and jar of contending rights and claims that 
were always cropping up for adjustment in 
their phalanstery. 

Lucy’s message to her husband brought him 
direct from the lecture-room to their own little 
nest in another wing of the house, and here, 
while she nursed her baby, she told Horace 
of Walter’s journey to London, and the sad 
news that had brought her in such haste 
from Wimbledon. 

“Poor Walter! it will be a sad blow to him,” 
said Horace ; “ he made so sure of being able 
to go to America this year, and has been dis- 
appointed so many times and in so many 
22 


Walter. 


346 

things. I wonder whether he will go to see 
the steam-engine that is being exhibited in 
London now? I should like to see it myself. 
A man was brought to the hospital yesterday 
who worked in Mr. Boulton’s factory, at Bir- 
mingham, and he says that Watt’s engine is 
the most wonderful thing the world has ever 
seen, and does more work in a day than a hun- 
dred men could do in a week. In fact, these 
engines work so fast that the men don’t like 
them, as they are afraid there will soon be no 
work left for them to do. I often think it is a 
pity Walter did not stay at home and carry 
on the old factory. He would have found 
out the secret of making wheels go by steam 
before Watt did, I believe, and might be mak- 
ing engines now instead — ” 

“O Horace, don’t!” interrupted Lucy in a 
tone of suppressed agony. “You don’t know 
what I feel when I see poor Walter so restless 
as he often is, for I have spoiled his life. If 
it had not been my blind hatred against the 
Methodists we might all be living in the dear 
old home now, Walter making his engines, en- 
larging the foundry, employing more men, and 
teaching them how to be God-fearing Chris- 
tians as well as skillful workmen. It would 
have been better than our phalanstery here, 


Conclusion. 


34 7 

for you could have been the parson and helped 
Walter with his work-people, and we might 
have made, between us, a model village that 
would not have been the failure that our great 
model home has been ; but my willfulness has 
made all this impossible. The worst of it is, 
Walter has to suffer most for what is solely 
my fault.” 

“ My dear Lucy, do not blame yourself too 
much about this. I am not so sure that Wal- 
ter would have been content even with a 
steam-engine. God has given him a passion 
for missionary enterprise, and I doubt not he 
has work for him to do, either in America or 
some other part of the world — not that his 
time has been wasted here. I believe that 
God has been using him as an instrument to 
fire other souls with the same desire to carry 
the Gospel to the heathen ; and whenever the 
time shall come and the Church of God wakes 
up to a sense of her duty in this particular, 
many whom poor disappointed Walter has 
been teaching here at the Mall will be ready 
for the Master’s service, wheresoever he may 
call them.” 

“ Then do you think we ought to send 
preachers out to the West Indies as well as 
America ? ” said Lucy. 


348 


Walter. 


“To be sure, my dear, and the East Indies, 
and Africa, too — wherever the heathen dwell 
who know not God, we ought to send men to 
teach them ; and by and by it will be done, I 
hope, and Walter’s work will be found not al- 
together in vain, nor your life altogether a 
failure, my dear. Since you have asked God 
to make the best he can of what remains, who 
knows but he may make it better, nobler, more 
useful to the world as it is ; and since he has 
found another man that could make the steam- 
engine, I think we may trust him for all the 
rest, my Lucy, and our work here — your Sun- 
day-school, and teaching the village wenches to 
sew and spin, and make clean the brick floors 
of their cottages. Do not think it will come 
to nought, for you, too, are helping in God’s 
battle against the mighty.” 

A little talk like this with her husband al- 
ways cheered and comforted Lucy, although 
it could never entirely remove the bitter regret 
that lay at the bottom of her heart, ready to 
spring up and torment her again and again, 
for the lost years and opportunities, and the 
bitter, blind prejudice that had made them so 
barren. 

Walter returned from his visit to London 
more sad and cast down than when he went 


Conclusion . 


349 

away. All that Lucy had told him had proved 
but too true. The missionaries had barely es- 
caped with their lives, and the gravest fears 
were entertained for the safety of Francis 
Asbury. 

“ It seems as though Satan, and not God, 
was the king of the earth now,” said Walter, 
in his fit of bitter despair; “for by the time 
this war is over Methodism will be well-nigh 
exterminated from America, where every thing 
was so hopeful just before this war began.” 

“ Have you seen any of the missionaries ? ” 
asked Horace. 

“ Yes, Shadford and Rankin both. Soon 
after they went out, a year or two ago, the 
Americans held their first Conference in Phil- 
adelphia, and there were then more than a 
thousand members in the Society there. I 
wonder how many there will be by the time 
this war comes to an end ? ” asked Walter. 

“ Come, brother, be of good cheer. God 
has not given up his throne to the enemy of 
souls ; and who knows the power of his might 
when the interests of his Church are at stake ? 
Remember Elijah and the seven thousand that 
had not bowed the knee to Baal, when he 
thought the land was wholly given to idolatry. 
Let us pray for our American brethren in this 


350 


Walter. 


time of their distress more earnestly, since it is 
the only way we can help t them, and it may be 
that God will speedily end this war, and bring 
back the revolted colonies to their allegiance.” 

“ I can’t hope for that now. Shadford says 
the Americans will fight it out to the bitter 
end, and their General Washington is just the 
man to do it and make them what they are de- 
termined now to be — the ‘ United Colonies.’ ” 
“ Is that the name they have dared to as- 
sume ? ” asked Lucy. 

“ Yes ; they have had a Congress at Phila- 
delphia and elected a President, who is to be 
something like a king, I understand. Depend 
upon it, we shall never subdue this rebellion, 
however many troops we may send out.” 

“ Walter, I do believe you are half an Amer- 
ican yourself,” said his sister. “ What would 
Mr. John say if he could hear you ? ” 

“We know pretty well what it is likely to 
be. But, Lucy, I heard one piece of good 
news from Shadford. Mr. John’s ‘Address’ 
did not cause all the mischief we thought, for 
the Americans did not see it. They had heard 
about it, of course ; but when the bundles of 
pamphlets reached New York a friend of the 
Methodists seized and destroyed them at once, 
for he thought it would be dangerous to let 


Conclusion . 


351 


them circulate while they were feeling so bit- 
ter against Mr. Wesley and the Methodists. I 
wish Asbury had come home with the rest. 
We may never know what happens to him 
now.” 

The same wish was often expressed during 
the next year, for nothing but rumors of bat- 
tles and defeats came from “The United Colo- 
nies,” and late in the autumn of this year, 1776, 
came news that the Congress, meeting in Phila- 
delphia, had issued a formal “ Declaration of 
Independence.” The exact words in which 
this was published puzzled Lucy and a good 
many Christian people in England, who looked 
upon the war as a wicked rebellion against 
God, in the person of his majesty King George 
the Third, whereas these Americans appealed 
to God. They said : “ We, therefore, the rep- 
resentatives of the United States of America, 
in General Congress assembled, appealing to 
the Supreme Judge of the world for the recti- 
tude of our intentions, do, in the name and by 
the authority of the good people of these col- 
onies, solemnly publish and declare that these 
United Colonies are and of right ought to be 
free and independent States.” 

Some expected that an earthquake at least 
would swallow up those who had been so dar- 


352 


Walter. 


ing in their treason and rebellion, for in taking 
this step the Americans themselves had gone 
beyond what they at first intended. “ They 
have been driven to take this step by our em- 
ploying German mercenaries against them, I 
know,” said Walter, by way of excusing this 
bold “ Declaration of Independence ; ” “ and 
if it would only end the war I don’t think I 
should mind much.” But, unfortunately it did 
not end the war. Independence had to be 
fought for in many a fierce battle before it 
could be fairly claimed as won and a secure 
possession. The French were drawn into it 
and took sides against the English ; but in the 
midst of reports of battles lost and won came 
a letter from Asbury to relieve the anxiety of 
his friends in England. He had been a pris- 
oner among friends for nearly two years, but 
at last had obtained such credentials from the 
Governor of Pennsylvania as would enable him 
to venture upon preaching again in the least- 
disturbed districts. Methodism had been kept 
alive, he said, by two American preachers, 
Freeborn Garrettson and Benjamin Abbot, and 
had even made some progress, he hoped, al- 
though in the present disturbed state of the 
country it was difficult to decide very precisely 
what had been done. 


Conclusion. 


353 


That Asbury was alive and well was a source 
of great joy to all English Methodists, and in 
praying for him they did not forget their 
brethren, who were still exposed to many dan- 
gers. The months rolled on after this, bring- 
ing varying success, but few letters from As- 
bury. Amid the blare of war-trumpets who 
could think of Methodist prayer-meetings and 
Methodist preachers ? And yet the hands of 
these feeble ones were upheld by the constant, 
earnest prayer of their English brethren, and 
they grew and increased mightily. 

The difficulties of England increased as the 
war went on with her colonies. Spain was up 
in arms and threatened to seize Gibraltar, 
while France collected an army on the coast 
ready to invade her shores. In 1780, to add 
to the complications and disasters, a riot, un- 
der the leadership of Lord George Gordon, 
directed against the* Roman Catholics, threat- 
ened to destroy London. Churches were 
burned, prisons thrown open, and the city 
fired in thirty-six places at once. Of course 
many were killed and wounded before quiet 
could be restored, and not a few of the inno- 
cent sufferers, fearful lest they should be ac- 
cused of taking part in the riot if it were known 
that they were wounded, were conveyed by 


354 


Walter. 


their friends to Whitby Mall to be nursed, and 
tended, and kept Out of the way until the 
panic had ceased ; for these excesses were 
comrnitted in the name of the Dissenters, and 
under the cry of “ No Popery ! ” so that 
Methodists were specially liable to be accused 
of participation in these outrages. 

But if this year, 1780, was a year of gloom 
and calamity to the whole nation, it was, at the 
same time, the birth-year of the proudest 
Christian enterprise the world has ever seen. 
Dame Lucy had begun her little Sunday- 
school at the Mall a year or two before, and 
others had made similar efforts, the gifted 
Hannah More and her sisters being of the 
number ; but this year, while London was in 
a convulsion of terror almost unprecedented, 
through the ignorant zeal of a lawless mob, 
Robert Raikes, of Gloucester, was taking the 
most effectual means of preventing a recurrence 
of such scenes by gathering the poor outcast 
little pinmakers of that city into Sunday- 
schools. He, with his friend Mr. Stock, the 
minister of the parish, began with ninety chil- 
dren, who were placed under the care of four 
persons, who were paid to teach them a stated 
number of hours every Sunday. If this had 
been all that Mr. Raikes had done we could 


Conclusion. 


355 


scarcely claim for him the honor of being the 
founder of Sunday-schools, but no sooner were 
these begun in Gloucester, than he used his 
much-esteemed and widely-circulated news- 
paper, the “Gloucester Journal,” to make 
known and advocate the establishment of Sun- 
day-schools throughout the land. 

Walter still kept up a desultory correspond- 
ence with his friend, and the Mall was favored 
with the first news of this Sunday-school move- 
ment, and Lucy wrote asking advice for the 
conduct of hers, and stating the difficulties 
that were so often cropping up to hinder it. 
Mr. Wesley happened to be on a visit to the 
Mall when the “ Gloucester Journal ” arrived, 
and such important news as it contained this 
time was not to be kept from him, nor was he 
slow to perceive the mighty influence such an 
institution as this would have upon the world 
if the Church of Christ would but follow the 
lead of Robert Raikes and establish Sunday- 
schools in connection with churches, chapels, 
and meeting-houses. The Methodists were 
not slow in any good work recommended by 
their Founder, but the establishment of Sun- 
day-schools was slow, up-hill work every- 
where ; for suspicion and distrust was not con- 
fined to the village of Whitby, and while the 


Walter. 


356 

poor said they could do as well without book- 
learning as their fathers did, the upper classes 
opposed it as being likely to give the poor no- 
tions above their station ; but in spite of all 
opposition Robert Raikes wrote, and worked, 
and prayed, and one Sunday-school after an- 
other sprang up in towns and villages, and 
when at last the ill-starred war with America 
came to an end, the evangelists who were 
ready to go out again could carry with them 
the Sunday-school plan as a valuable auxiliary 
to the growth of Methodism. 

It was not until 1783 that peace was signed 
between the contending parties, and by the 
“ Treaty of Versailles ” the independence 
claimed by the United States seven years be- 
fore was ratified — a most humiliating defeat to 
the boasted power of England, and one that 
the nation could ill digest. 

Walter was growing to be a middle-aged 
man by the time that war came to an end, but 
he was none the less anxious to go to Amer- 
ica as soon as it was safe for him to do so. 
Brave Mr. Asbury, the noble standard-bearer 
of Methodism all through the perils of the 
war, was still at his post, hale and hearty, and 
gathering the Society together again. How 
ashamed Walter felt when he heard that in- 


Conclusion . 


357 


stead of Methodism being dead, it was stronger 
than ever, and its muster-roll, that showed but 
one thousand just before the war, could show 
its seven thousand names now — seven thou- 
sand who had dared to brave difficulty and 
danger, and call themselves Methodists, when 
the very name exposed them not only to the 
opposition and persecution of the worldly, but 
to the suspicion and distrust of their fellow- 
Christians of other denominations. This was 
carried to such a length that they one and all re- 
fused to baptize the children or administer the 
communion to Methodists unless they would 
break off their connection with Mr. Wesley. 
He had always taught his followers to obtain 
these at the hands of ordained clergymen, but 
these had all fled during the war, and two 
young Americans, who applied to the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury for ordination, were told 
that they could not be ordained unless they 
took the oath of allegiance to King George. 
As this was impossible, it was no slight diffi- 
culty to Mr. Wesley, when Asbury sent over 
soon afterward, to know what he should do 
under such unheard-of circumstances. 

America was free now — free both as to 
Church and State, and it would not do to en- 
tangle her with either in the mother country. 


358 


Walter. 


She must have a free Church as well as a free 
State — Bishops who could exercise all the 
rights and functions of a Bishop, and as the 
Archbishop could not ordain these without the 
oath of allegiance to the king, Mr. Wesley de- 
cided to do it himself, he being a duly ordained 
minister, and, therefore, as he concluded after 
much reading and thought, able to do it. But 
it was not hastily decided, but carefully and 
prayerfully, and after much anxious study given 
to the whole question. “As our American 
brethren are now totally disentangled,” he 
said, “ both from the State and the English 
hierarchy, we dare not entangle them again 
either with the one or the other. They are 
now at full liberty simply to follow the Script- 
ures and the primitive Church, and we judge 
it best that they should stand fast in that lib- 
erty wherewith God has so strangely made 
them free.” 

Having at last decided how to act, Mr. Wes- 
ley communicated his determination to Dr. 
Coke, and proposed that he as a Presbyter, 
which he regarded as of the same significance 
as Bishop, should invest him (Dr. Coke) with 
the rights and powers of a Bishop, that he 
might proceed to America and take the over- 
sight of the Society there, thus elevating it at 


Conclusion . 


359 


once into an Episcopal Methodist Church, and 
not a mere sect of Dissenters, as it must forever 
remain in England, however it might increase 
in power and influence. It was the only way 
out of the difficulty, and there were grave rea- 
sons for its adoption, which Mr. Wesley stated 
in their defense. 

“By a very uncommon train of provi- 
dences,” he said, “ many of the provinces of 
North America are totally disjoined from the 
mother country and erected into independent 
States. The English Government has no au- 
thority over them, either civil or ecclesias- 
tical, any more than over the States of Hol- 
land. A civil authority is exercised over them 
partly by the Congress and partly by the pro- 
vincial assemblies, but no one either exer- 
cises or claims any ecclesiastical authority at 
all. In this peculiar situation some thousands 
of the inhabitants of these States desire my 
advice.” 

Then asserting his opinion that Bishops and 
Presbyters were the same order, and conse- 
quently had the same right to ordain, he said, 
that for many years he had been importuned, 
from time to time, to exercise this right, by 
ordaining part of the traveling preachers, and 
that he had still refused for peace’ sake, and 


Walter. 


360 

because he was determined as little as possible 
to violate the established order of the natioral 
Church to which he belonged. “ But the case,” 
he continued, “ is widely different between En- 
gland and North America. Here there are 
Bishops who have a legal jurisdiction. In 
America there are none, neither any parish 
ministers, so that for some hundreds of miles 
together there is none either to baptize or to 
administer the Lord’s Supper. Here, there- 
fore, my scruples are at an end, and I conceive 
myself at full liberty, as I violate no order and 
invade no man’s right by appointing and send- 
ing laborers into the harvest.” 

Dr. Coke was ordained at Bristol as the ‘first 
Bishop of the American Episcopal Methodist 
Church ; and as elders, Richard Whatcoat and 
Thomas Vasey. To Dr. Coke, Mr. Wesley gave 
letters of ordination under his hand and seal, 
in these words : 

“To all to whom these presents shall come, 
John Wesley, late Fellow of Lincoln College 
in Oxford, Presbyter of the Church of En- 
gland, sendeth greeting: 

“ Whereas many of the people in the south- 
ern provinces of North America, who desire 
to continue under my care, and still adhere 


Conclusion. 


361 

to the doctrine and discipline of the Church 
of England, are greatly distressed for want of 
ministers to administer the sacraments of Bap- 
tism and the Lord’s Supper, according to the 
usage of the same Church ; and whereas there 
does not appear to be any other way of sup- 
plying them with ministers : 

“ Know all men, that I, John .Wesley, think 
myself to be providentially called, at this time, 
to set apart some persons for the work of the 
ministry in America. And, therefore, under 
the protection of almighty God, and with a sin- 
gle eye to his glory, I have this day set apart 
as a superintendent by the imposition of my 
hands, and prayer, (being assisted by other or- 
dained ministers,) Thomas Coke, doctor of 
civil law, a presbyter of the Church of En- 
gland, and a man whom I judge to be well 
qualified for that great work. And I do hereby 
recommend him to all whom it may concern as 
a fit person to preside over the flock of Christ. 
In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my 
hand and seal, this second day of September, in 
the year of our Lord one thousand seven hun- 
dred and eighty-four. JOHN WESLEY.” 

Who could despise Methodism after the 
founding of the American Methodist Church? 

23 


Walter. 


362 

What other body of Christian people — what 
other man except Luther, since the days of 
the apostles, had done such a noble work for 
the world and the Church of Christ as the first 
Methodist — John Wesley? The direct work 
that he did in the founding of Methodism 
was much, but the indirect work to which he 
gave an impetus was far more, for the Church 
of England, dead in sloth, ignorance, and in- 
dolence, was roused into new life, and those 
who founded the famous Clapham Sect could, 
in almost every case, trace their conversion to 
Wesley or his disciple Whitefield. Newton 
and Venn, Simeon and Cecil, Wilberforce and 
Sharpe, had all received their inspiration from 
Methodists, and these were the fathers of the 
great evangelical revival that ushered in our 
nineteenth century. These were the men who 
fought like giants for twenty years, in Parlia- 
ment and out, until they had gained the aboli- 
tion of the slave-trade. These were the found- 
ers of the Bible Society, the Missionary Socie- 
ties, the noble followers of Robert Raikes in 
his Sunday-school work, and the pioneers of 
many a work of mercy and benevolence. 
Ashamed to be called a Methodist ! 

Lucy lived to see all these great works organ- 
ized and took an active part in many — the 


Conclusion. 


363 

slave question especially— only regretting that 
her dear friend, Dame Wilberforce, had not 
lived to see her nephew, the great and noble 
statesman and devoted Christian philanthro- 
pist, making the world and the Church better, 
purer, and happier, through the influence of 
his life and example. 

Lucy gloried in being a Methodist now. 
She joined in all the revival movements of 
the “Clapham Sect,” but never forgot that 
she was a Methodist, or the debt of gratitude 
that they and she owed to the life and labors 
of Mr. John Wesley, or ceased to regret that 
she had not earlier yielded herself to its in- 
fluence. 

Walter paid several visits to England, bring- 
ing news of the growing power and influence 
of the Methodist Episcopal Church in the 
United States, but he never stayed more than 
a few weeks or months at the most. America 
was the land of his adoption and he never 
seemed happy away from it. To carry the 
good news of salvation to the out-lying dis- 
tricts where there were no means of grace but 
such as the Methodists could send, this was 
Walter’s delight and chosen work, and in this 
he spent the remainder of his life, less known 
and less honored, as men count honor, than if 


364 Walter. 

he had discovered the secret of the steam en- 
gine, but owned and honored and crowned with 
glory by the Master, who, by his servant Dan- 
iel, has said, “ They that be wise shall shine 
as the brightness of the firmament ; and they 
that turn many to righteousness, as the stars 
for ever and ever.” 


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